What Mycroft Did
by LittlePippin76
Summary: My take on a Sherlock/drugs story. I've rated this T, with warnings for one graphic description of drugs use, references to child abuse, some violence, a very small amount of bad language. Anyone's sexuality is irrelevant. Now Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Something new and a little different from me. I wanted to do my own take on a Sherlock/drugs story. I've rated this T, with warnings for graphic descriptions of drugs use, references to child abuse, some violence, a very small amount of bad language. **

**Anyone's sexuality is utterly irrelevant.**

**Most of this is finished now, but with later chapters needing some revision, so I'll be publishing a chapter a day for seven chapters.**

* * *

_Friday, 27__th__ December. 23:14_

Today has been one of complicated and exhausting events, politically at home and abroad, and unusually, of a more personal nature. The news of events in Burma will have been televised by now. Of course the public won't hear about the fifteen hours of negotiations that took place from the early hours of this morning. I am hopeful that the indiscretions of the Young Royal can be kept away from the media. Said Y.R. has been spoken to, and I am confident that she understands the magnitude of her indiscretion, and the lengths that we have gone to in order to protect her tenuous right to privacy.

Following the somewhat difficult day, I allowed myself the rare luxury of leaving work early, so it was that I was able to eat my dinner at the respectable hour of 20:30. Darling Marie excelled herself as usual. I was quite prepared to relax with a book while listening to some music when I received an unexpected phone call from the Metropolitan Police Service. They informed me that my brother had been detained in the cells at Scotland Yard, and that mine was the only name he would give as a contact.

I will admit to being slightly shaken by this call, and I was certainly distracted as Martin drove me to collect him. My thoughts covered several areas, including, but not restricted to, feeling that such an incident, or worse, was bound to happen at some point. S has been on a downward trajectory for several years. I have tried to speak to him about it on several occasions, but he has resisted me. When he continued to refuse to answer my calls I sent a letter, followed by several text messages but he is uninterested and refuses to communicate with me. I sent an invitation for Christmas lunch, but I knew even before I sent it that it would go unanswered and I didn't bother to alter my plans.

I have reverted to monitoring his movements from afar.

A greater part of my thoughts dwelled on wondering why S had chosen me as a contact. I know that he has friends, if you can consider such people he associates with as capable of friendship. There are a few brighter spots in his society though. Certainly I know he is in regular contact with one Detective Inspector Lestrade, and he would be more than capable of handling this situation. I understand he communicates with several people who work at St. Bartholomew's Teaching Hospital, and they would probably be distant enough to be discrete and intelligent enough to provide the council he clearly needs.

So I wondered; why on Earth did Dear Sherlock contact _me_?

I was so distracted Martin had to tell me twice that we had arrived.

I was about to follow a desk sergeant down to the cells when Inspector Lestrade intercepted me. He apologised for disturbing me, but I was distracted by the black eye he was sporting, and the large and ugly bruise across his left cheekbone. I now understood why S could not have asked for his help on this occasion. I made a note to request the full medical file relating to these injuries, but he appears not to have sought official treatment.

"Listen," he said to me, "you will take care of him, won't you? He's a good kid, I know he is, but, well it's all got a bit out of control. I'm sorry. I think being on his own for Christmas didn't help."

I wondered what he was apologising to me for, but it occurred to me he felt responsible for S's habit. And perhaps even for not inviting him for Christmas himself. I suspect I have not been the only one keen on resolving the drugs issue.

I asked whether S would need legal counsel, but he stated that there would be no charges. He had called me because he wanted to ensure S would be taken care of.

I thanked him and as I walked to the cell I wondered what it would take to get the damned fool to listen. He's always been contrary and wild and if there was any time that he had looked up to me as a wiser older brother, that time was over long ago.

He has, however, always been vaguely logical, and though mildly incompetent in the area of self-preservation, he'd never been actively self-destructive before. I admit I was alarmed at this turn of events, and I discovered I was no longer prepared to watch him destroy himself from a distance. The thought of him dying chilled me sufficiently that I started to form a plan to prevent this happening at all costs.

S was sat on the bench in the holding cell looking surly and belligerent. It was an expression I remember well from his childhood and I could almost claim I felt a moment of affection for him. In retrospect, I suspect it was just nostalgia, exacerbated by my fatigue.

There was also something wholly new and unpleasant about him. He was tense, unfocussed and irascible. I could see that his breathing was short and I suspect if I'd have touched him to take his pulse it would have been elevated. He looked feverish.

He didn't say anything to me as I walked up to him. I stood several feet from him, and bid him good evening, and without speaking he stood and followed me from the cell. I realised that his brain was more affected than I had initially thought as he was quite willing to get into the car, and had not suspected I would do anything other than take him where-ever he wanted to go.

After sitting quietly for several minutes, he looked up and turned to me.

"Where are we going?" he asked me. "This isn't the way to my house! Take me home!"

The 'home' to which he referred was a single room in a house, currently occupied without tenancy agreements or contracts by four other men and a woman. None of them worked. I told him he was being ridiculous.

"Where are you taking me? Let me out now!"

I could see Martin glancing in his mirror to check on S, and I was comforted by his presence. Fortunately his intervention was unnecessary. S shouted a great deal but he didn't try to attack me physically. I cannot say for certain whether he decided that my actions were indeed for the best, or whether he simply forgot what we were arguing about. Certainly the verbal aggression continued the whole way home without any logical rhetoric at all.

Though he continued to slight my character from the car to my front room, he didn't attempt to divert from our path or indeed show any actual will to escape me. He followed me into the building like an angry and noisy lamb, which made things easier than I had hoped. When we got into the flat and I felt there was a fraction more privacy, I told him to be quiet and asked him if he required food. He's always been slender but he's taken this to 'emaciated' levels. I don't know whether he heard me, or he didn't understand, but I couldn't get a sensible answer from him.

I showed him to my spare room, and he went inside and slammed the door behind him. I suspect he's going to attempt to climb out of the window, but I'm happy that he will be thwarted by my security systems. I doubt he will try the front door. I will need to have a conversation with him at some point, either tonight or in the morning. I find I am currently uncertain as to what to say to him, and what to do next. It's an unfamiliar and altogether unpleasant feeling.

My choices are few and I shall describe them here.

The first, and possibly easiest option would be to allow him to sleep here tonight, give him something to eat in the morning, and then to send him on his merry way.

While this is more than I'd do for any other person, and arguably S has done nothing in his life to earn greater effort, it still feels unsatisfactory. I am quite clear that if S will die if nobody intervenes, and the time of crisis is rapidly approaching. Once again, I have become chilled at the image of watching my brother die while I do nothing.

The second, and the most sensible option, would be to start researching facilities that specialise in resolving addictions of this kind. (Side note; is this an addiction? How does one tell?)

This option has many merits. The people in charge of such places have a wealth of experience. They, for example, would not need to question the status of his addiction. They would be required to tend to his physical and mental needs. They would know what his physical and mental needs might be and I am quite ignorant about these things myself. They will be discrete.

I have searched my mind for any negatives to this plan and I can only think of one. While I am certain that a good facility would be more than capable of mending the average person, would they be equal to the task of mending S? Unfortunately, this is a fairly major consideration. There are factors relating to S that make his care quite out of the ordinary, and this has been the case as long as I can recall. I remember the endless line of nannies streaming into the house with eager anticipation and optimism, and them streaming out again when the realities of S were revealed to them.

I am romanticising the issue, a clear sign that I am tired. Poor, dear Sherlock. I cannot rest yet; a decision has to be made. I'm glad our parents are dead and the task falls to me. I could not imagine two such spectacularly useless parents for a child such as Sherlock Holmes.

I must force myself to be calm.

There is only one other option that I can think of at this time. S stays with me until the issue relating to his drug is resolved.

I cannot think of a single positive to this plan. The negatives are endless. I haven't the first idea how to go about solving such a problem. I haven't the time to devote to such a task. I don't particularly want S as a houseguest for an extended period as I personally prefer quiet and solitude. I don't have any facilities here to aid him. I don't believe I have so much as a spare toothbrush and it's unmistakable that his personal hygiene needs taking care of.

There is something that stops me abandoning this idea altogether. A part of me recognises that I would quite like the challenge. It would be something different, something new to me. I have a strong belief that if I put my mind to it I would succeed. It is ridiculous, of course, almost childish in its naiveté, and I must not allow myself to be distracted by that.

There's something else though. My mind is taken back to the day before the garden party. That was the day that the final Nanny left the Holmes residence. I remember Nanny Claire's outburst to this day. I remember the look of utter confusion on Sherlock's face as she tore character to shreds in front of our mother. She used the words 'Hell's beast'. I remember the look of exhausted resignation Mummy's face as she accepted without question that Nanny Claire was justified and correct, and that there was no-one left to turn to who could help take care of him.

Though I was not yet twelve, I remember clearly the feeling that one by one, everyone in the world was giving up on my five-year-old brother, and even at that time it didn't seem quite right. Mummy gave up there and then. Father stayed the course for several more years, but was blighted by his own incompetency and general stupidity.

I can look back on Sherlock's life and it is largely characterised by people turning their backs and walking away from him. I am lead to wonder, perhaps if this pattern is broken there might be a greater chance for him.

Goodness I am quite exhausted. Obviously the clearest solution is to ask Andrea to research recovery places and to arrange for one of them to take him off my hands. It would be better for both of us, I'm sure.

But every time I think of this decision, I find I have an inescapable voice inside my head repeating the words: "But he's my _brother._"

I am clearly over-tired so any decision made tonight will be unsound. Nothing needs to be done until tomorrow morning. As I look at the clock, I am inclined to correct that to 'later this morning'.

* * *

_Saturday 28__th__ December. 02:43_

A decision has been made.

Shortly after I finished my previous entry, S appeared in my living room. From what I could understand through the general rage, he had indeed attempted to break out of the window and he was furious that I was detaining him.

He started by being vocal once again, but it quickly degenerated until he was overturning my furniture and throwing my possessions to the floor. I tried to restrain him, and I remembered that S is really quite strong despite his deceptive lack of breadth. There's not much of him, but he seems to have been formed entirely of sinew and muscle. We wrestled in the way we used to when we were young and our passion overtook our ability to debate like civilised beings. Previously, the six and a half years I have on him was sufficient to ensure I would always be the victor. It was quickly apparent that this was not the case any more.

Certainty I was glad to know that Eddie was outside, along with the building's general security guard, but as it happens I was able to avoid their intervention. I can honestly say I would not have beaten him was it not for blind luck and his lack of focus. The chiming of my grandfather clock distracted him and I was able to strike his chin with a right hook. He was not knocked unconscious, but fell to the floor surprised and confused. It marked the end of the fight and he stayed where he was.

I tried to drag him to his feet but he was too heavy for me alone, so I did call for Eddie's assistance and between us we half carried and half supported him back to the bedroom. He sat on the bed, continuing to look dazed and before I left I told him not to make himself comfortable, as he would be shipped out in the morning.

I find I am still angry, not least because I lost my composure and shouted at him in front of my staff. Eddie will be discretion itself outside of our household, but certainly my personal staff and the building staff will have heard by tomorrow morning and while I respect them individually, I do not care to be the focus of gossip among them. In addition, I will have to ask Dianne to work additional hours on a weekend just to clean up all the mess he has made. I am outraged and disgusted by him.

In the morning I will instruct Anthea to find a suitable place for him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Saturday 28th December, 14:45_

I am taking a short break to document my thoughts about the further developments relating to my brother. (Aside: Yesterday in my exhaustion and anger I hadn't given a thought to the possibility of S finding and deciphering these entries. I do not wish to censor myself here. I shall trust in the hope that he doesn't consider me the diary writing type.)

I woke early having dreamed about the garden at Holyroyd. It was last night's thoughts about that frightful garden party that planted the image in my subconscious. The end result was that I woke up feeling vaguely benevolent to my brother once again. I rose and prepared myself for the day.

On my way to the living room to survey the damage in the light of the morning, I passed Marie on her way in and I asked her to contact Dianne to request her services today. She gave a furtive glance towards the spare room and I accepted that the news of the prodigal brother had indeed wound its way around the staff. There was nothing to be done about it. I asked Marie to provide breakfast for two this morning.

The living room was not as bad as I had imagined. I was easily able to return most of the furniture to its rightful positions myself. There are some breakages which will need attending to, and books will need reordering and replacing on the book shelves. One of my shelves has been damaged, but I am confident it is not beyond repair. I went to the cupboard on the far side of the room and unlocked it. I took down Sherlock's violin from where I had been storing it on the shelf since I'd retrieved it from the pawnshop several months ago.

I took it to the spare room.

There was no answer to my knock but on walking in I found S awake and sat on the bed, staring at the door, and then at me. He had the same expression that he did when I saw him in the holding cell at Scotland Yard. He didn't move or acknowledge me in any way but his eyes didn't leave me.

I asked if he would be joining me in the dining room for breakfast but he didn't respond. He looked quite savage, and for a moment, I felt quite afraid of him. Afraid for him too.

I walked into the room and put the violin in its case on the end of his bed. There was a subtle change in his demeanour as he glanced at it and then back to continue looking at me. There was no question that he understood it to be his own. It is a Derazey I found for him some years ago when there our relationship was on more solid ground. And my word, he can play it.

I was taken back to mother, sitting in the sunshine with a cocktail of some description, talking to one of her vacuous friends.

"Mycroft Darling, you remember my friend Simone, don't you?"

I did not. I found most of her friends to be unremarkable and interchangeable, but I'm sure I nodded and said something appropriate. I had been taken to Father's tailor for my first formal suit, complete with waistcoat and tie and I was determined to live up to it. Ludicrous child that I was, feeling I must behave appropriately for the _clothing_.

"He's my clever one," Mummy had said. "He's quite the little brain, aren't you darling."

"Will he be taking his eleven plus exam this year?"

"Don't be absurd," Father had said. "He'll be taking the Common Entrance at thirteen."

Sherlock had naturally been asked after.

"Oh, he's my little artist," Mummy had purred.

I remember wondering if she knew either one of us at all, if she didn't consider S as deeply intelligent as me. Besides which, I felt slightly insulted that my brain was the only thing she thought about when she thought of me. As for S being an _artist_, it's a description he would instantly reject. Sherlock might be considered musical, and perhaps to have an artistic temperament, but it's barely a scratch on the surface of who he is and that was evident even when he was five.

There is no denying, however, that S has always loved to play the violin. I am convinced that it calms and steadies him and it seemed appropriate to give it to him now when I was about to take away his other emotional crutch.

"I thought you might like to have it with you," I told him. "I'm not sure what sort of entertainment facilities they have in these places."

He looked startled, as if he'd forgotten the plan. He looked again at his violin, and for a moment, it looked as though he was restraining himself from grabbing it and holding it to himself like a comfort blanket. He didn't move though. I wondered if I should say some words of comfort to him, but none sprung to mind.

I reminded him about breakfast, and left.

Before food was served I contacted Anthea to explain what I needed. She had anticipated my call. It is to be expected though; it has not escaped my notice that Anthea has been conducting an affair with Eddie for several months. I wondered what a bright young thing such as she could find in Eddie, who would be the first to admit that he had significantly more brawn than brain. Perhaps that _is_ what she sees in him. She informed me that she'd contact me presently with details of somewhere suitable.

Marie was just laying up breakfast for two when I went into the dining room and I asked her if she could contact her husband to see about repairing my shelf. She readily agreed. She returned quite quickly with my breakfast and I was immensely pleased that she had decided that today was not a day to pay attention to my diet. I clearly needed something substantial and comforting.

After ten minutes, I rang for her again and asked her to take Sherlock's food to him on a tray. She looked surprised but obeyed without question.

I decided that my family had taken quite enough of my time for the present and turned my attention to the newspaper and the affairs of state.

It did not surprise me that I was being called to the palace to discuss recent events with ER. I have been scheduled time this afternoon. Burma is ticking along nicely. There are rumblings originating from Cambodia and I have arranged for the relevant department to send a status report. I made notes on a report relating to a potential new anti-terrorism act. It was nonsense and my notes made that quite clear. Chastising politicians always puts me into a good mood, so when Anthea walked into my dining room I looked up at her with a smile.

"I have the details you asked for, Sir," she said, and she handed me a sheet of paper with brief descriptions of three rehabilitation centres, along with a URL and a telephone number for each.

"I'll need this to be sent to me electronically," I told her. "This whole transaction could have taken place by e-mail."

"Yes sir, I'm sorry sir."

I do wish she wouldn't apologise when she's clearly not actually sorry. Still, my good mood remained, and of all my staff Anthea probably has the most right to curiosity regarding the other Holmes.

"While you're here you may sit and give me your opinions on these three establishments. But before you do, ring for Marie and ask her to bring fresh coffee."

"I've already seen her and asked for it, sir."

"Of course you have. Have some toast, won't you? Now, these places."

"I researched twenty-three establishments in London and the home counties, but none further than Sussex."

"I'd be prepared to go abroad if necessary,"

"Yes sir. Of those I reviewed, there were only three that I would deem suitable for your needs. Of the three, the top one, The Poplars, is streets above the others. I'm prepared to return and extend my search, but everything I've seen leads me to believe that there is nowhere better than The Poplars."

"That's fine, I suspect that will meet our needs. Now you should feel free to relax for the rest of your day off, and as always I appreciate the time you have taken over this."

"Thank you, sir."

"If you wish to take your coffee down to the security lodge, you should feel free to do so."

I was pleased that she blushed slightly.

"Thank you, sir."

Marie appeared with coffee and the news that Colin was happily mending the shelving in the living room and that Dianne was due to arrive at any moment.

I suddenly felt surrounded and uncomfortable and I retreated to my bedroom and locked the door. By now everyone in my apartment will have a clear understanding about what I am going to do with my brother, and yet I still felt the need to make the necessary phone calls in privacy.

The person who took my call at The Poplars was professional and clearly sympathetic, but despite this, the call did not go well. It started badly, as I was unable to tell them what S was addicted to, how long he had been addicted, whether alcohol was involved as well as drugs, or indeed any information that might be useful to them.

They persevered, and as I remembered the violence of the day before and my feeling of being uncomfortably out of my depth, I persevered too. It appeared that they were happy to take him on despite all of this, and that they had a space available for him today. I must admit I was quiet relieved. It was, however, mixed with a subtle feeling of disappointment.

We got onto further rocky ground when I attempted to explain the specific needs relating to S. They cut me off quite quickly.

"Please don't worry, Mister Holmes. We've seen it all before."

I was silenced for a moment. How on Earth could they attest that! They hadn't yet seen _him_.

I tried again to describe what it was that I was worried about but I was interrupted again.

"Please, Mister Holmes, I can tell that you love him deeply, and this is absolutely the best thing to do. Don't worry about your brother, Mister Holmes. There will be nothing that he can come up with that we haven't seen a million other times."

I thanked them for their time and hung up. I knew that there was no point calling the other two numbers.

I stayed in my bedroom for some time, wondering what the next move should be. I decided on a basic plan of keeping S here, with me, in this apartment. I would have to work out the fine detail relating to his needs and my own as quickly as I could.

I went to the spare room to inform him of this decision. He hadn't moved from his previous position, sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard, his knees bent and his feet, still in his shoes, on the bedclothes. The violin was untouched at the end of the bed, and the breakfast tray, also untouched, was beside him on the table.

I looked at him properly now. He was dreadfully unclean and the smell coming from him was quite offensive. He clearly hadn't shaved in several days, and when he'd last done so he'd done a poor job. I'd estimate that it had been a week or more since his hair had seen shampoo.

Once again I was taken back in my mind.

"Where is young Sherlock?" the vacuous friend has asked. "I'd love to see his beautiful curls again!"

"I don't know," Mummy had said. "Mycroft, could you ask Claire…. I'm sorry darling, could you go and find Sherlock yourself? There's my good boy."

I had naturally obeyed and I knew precisely where he would be. Beyond the formal garden we owned some land that had been laid to woodland several centuries before and was now overgrown and wild. Father loathed it, finding trees in general slightly sinister and foreboding, and in large numbers positively frightening. He'd threatened to have the whole area levelled, and when I returned from my first year at Cambridge I found he'd finally carried out his threat. Sherlock loved those woods as much as our Father hated them. Probably Father's fear and distaste fuelled Sherlock's desire. Certainly he looked free and jubilant every time he was in them.

It wasn't a large area, it was a little over twelve acres, and I was able to find S within twenty minutes. It was clear it would take significantly longer to get him into a fit state for the garden party.

S had been taken to the tailor along with me, though Mummy had asked for his suit to be simpler and more suitable for his tender years. He was wearing tailored shorts and a blazer, a shirt, knee socks and brogues. I hadn't the slightest idea what he'd done with his tie. Every other item of clothing was utterly filthy, and the three main items had also been torn. There were grass stains and traces of blood on both knees, his face showed traces of him wiping his hair from his face with muddy hands and there were stains from assorted mosses and lichen over any exposed parts of his body.

He smiled when he saw me.

"Hello, Mycroft! Has the party started?"

Though the level of filth he was currently showing in my spare room wasn't quite on a level with that occasion, I felt that it wasn't that far off. Certainly the smell _then_ had been better than it was now.

It also felt like a regression. At some point during his mid-teens, S became horrified with his appearance and particularly the unfortunate show of acne his body chose to rebel with. Almost overnight he changed from being utterly oblivious to hygiene, to being one of its staunchest supporters. He'd shower several times a day and spend silly amounts of time selecting his wardrobe and styling his hair. I found it irritating and shallow, but also humorous. It became a deeply ingrained habit as he got older and I was surprised it had vanished at this time.

"I haven't locked you in," I told him. "You should feel free to make use of the main bathroom." He didn't answer, but he didn't stop staring at me.

"You should eat something too." Again, no answer. I was annoyed that his silence was beginning to irritate me.

"Oh, and there's been a change in plan. You're staying here for now."

There may have been a slight reaction to this but he chose to continue with his silence so I left him alone.

I spent the rest of the morning locked in the dining room, trying to work out what we would need by way of medical carers and supplies, and a plan is beginning to form, so I have taken a break to get my thoughts up to date. I have heard leave his room to us the bathroom on one occasion, so I'm pleased to know he's not intentionally soiling himself as I'd previously suspected. He didn't appear for lunch (again, all praise for Marie), and he hadn't touched it when I removed his tray.

Now it is time for me to make my way to the Palace to hear someone else complaining about their family. Though thinking about it, perhaps in comparison I got of fairly lightly.


	3. Chapter 3

_Saturday 28__th__ December, 23:15_

Goodness me, four entries in twenty-four hours. This must be what if feels like to lead an exciting life.

The meeting with ER was uneventful. As I anticipated, she used the full hour to complain at me. As far as I can tell, she wasn't looking for a resolution, or anything beyond a sounding board. While it feels like a waste of my time, I couldn't do anything but oblige.

Everything else in the world seems to have gone suspiciously quiet, which is useful as I left the palace very tired and with a pounding headache. I refuse to believe I have become old enough to need regular afternoon naps, though the idea is quite tempting.

Things appeared to have quietened back at my apartment too. Colin had left having done an impeccable job with the shelves, and Dianne had tidied and left as well. There was no remaining sign in the living room of anything untoward having happened the previous evening, apart from the unexpected presence of Anthea and Eddie. I failed to believe this heralded anything good but I was happily mistaken.

They stood up when I entered the room.

"Sir, Eddie has asked if he may have a private chat with you."

Eddie looked hot and uncomfortable, shuffling his feet like a child in the head-masters office in a school.

"Then why are you here?" I asked Anthea.

"Eddie asked if I could be present at your private chat. He has information that might be helpful with regards to the Sherlock situation."

I bristled slightly at the term, but I didn't want to make this more difficult for Eddie, who looked like he had been unexpectedly struck dumb. After a moment it appeared that this assessment was almost accurate, and Anthea continued for him.

"Eddie has a sister-in-law who's a psychiatrist specialising in addictions. She currently works at a NHS rehabilitation facility in Walthamstow."

I was excited by this news. "And you think I should employ her?"

"Oh no, no no no, sir," Eddie said quickly. "I'd never presume…"

Why can people never read my tone?

"You misunderstand me. I _would_ like to employ her."

"Oh, thank you, sir, she'd be well chuffed to hear that, but I think she actually likes where she works now. She wouldn't like to be a nursemaid for the over-privileged."

Eddie went extremely red and looked quite horrified that he'd said this, despite it being an accurate assessment of the situation. He went quiet again.

"What we actually thought, sir, was that you might like to speak to her," Anthea told me. "She may be able to prepare you for what might happen with your brother. She might be able to suggest appropriate literature for you to read and give you advice on what you should and shouldn't do. If you were to want that information, sir."

"Do you think she'd be prepared to come and talk to me, and to Sherlock perhaps?"

"Oh yes sir," Eddie said. "She's bound to owe me a favour for something, and she's a proper decent bird. She wouldn't like to leave you in a mess if she could fix it."

"Despite me being over-privileged?"

Eddie went red again and opened and closed his mouth for a while. It really was very sweet.

"My apologies, Eddie. Thank you very much for your input, I'm extremely grateful. You and Anthea should feel free to take the rest of the day off. And indeed tomorrow, as there's not much of a day left to grant you just now."

"Thank you, sir," he mumbled.

"Actually, sir," Anthea put in, "Perhaps you would like to rethink that. Simon isn't due in tomorrow and it might be good for you to have the extra support around, should anything unexpected happen."

That was actually a good point. Eddie nodded his agreement.

"Actually, I hope it wasn't overstepping the bounds, but I noticed Mister Holmes leaving the building earlier…"

"He's gone!" I was horrified. I needed him here with me.

"No, no, sir. I was going to say, I followed him, and gently suggested that he should stay. Like I say, I hope that wasn't wrong. I did have to gently suggest quite forcefully."

"Where is he now?"

"Back in the spare room, sir."

"No, not wrong at all. Indeed, thank you, Eddie. I'm extremely grateful for your initiative."

"Actually it was Dinkie… it was _Anthea_ who said that I should do it."

"Good, good. Anthea, before you go, do you think you could find me some paracetamol. There should be some in my bathroom. And let Marie know that I'd be grateful for a cup of coffee."

"Indeed, sir. There are several packages of clothing in the dining room sir, along with some basic toiletries. I thought it inappropriate to give them to Mister Holmes myself."

"Thank you, Anthea."

Eddie stood to follow her. He lingered in the doorway though.

"Sir, I just wanted to say, from what Charlotte's told me, and from what I've seen myself, I just wanted you to know, in case you didn't already. Going Cold Turkey, that is to say for an addict to stop dead, well, not _dead_ dead, but to stop taking anything he's addicted to. Well it's really hard, sir. Physically, it's really bad. But she also said that the really bad part is over quite quickly, and after a week or so, it's just like having really bad flu."

"What on Earth is it like before then?"

"Well, worse sir. I'm just saying, it's hard. And from what I've seen, it's harder to get through if you're being made to do it. Charlie knows her shi…, her _stuff_ sir, but from what she's told me, the addict has got to want to stop to be able to stop. Even if it's from mid-way through the process, at some point he's got to want to do it, or it just won't work."

"I understand. Thank you, Eddie."

They left me in peace and I sank into a chair. I was pleased that there might be someone available to help me through the morass, but at the same time I was becoming alarmed that this sort of thing required 'specialists' and 'literature'. On the other hand, it meant that this was something that could be learned, and I've always been good at that.

The information that it might be physically uncomfortable for S hadn't really crossed my mind either. I knew he wouldn't like it, but he doesn't like being instructed to do anything and he never has. When we were children I was regularly able to trick him or bribe him into doing the right thing as long as the gratification was instant (this was substantially more successful than Father's punishments). I doubt the same methods will be successful now.

Darling Marie appeared with coffee and pain-killers. She lingered too and it took every ounce of energy I had left to sit up and take notice of her.

"I've prepared a lovely pheasant for your dinner, sir. It will be ready for you at eight unless you'd like it sooner."

"Eight is fine, thank you."

"Sir, I've taken the liberty of preparing some soup for Mister Holmes. His appetite doesn't seem to be quite right, sir, and I hoped something smaller and lighter might tempt him. If there is anything he particularly likes, I'd be happy to prepare it for him."

I thought about this. With regards to food, Sherlock has never expressed strong preferences. Certainly from when he was an early teen, he declared that food was fuel and nothing more. I suspect this is why he remains so lean. I stray memory popped up, however, and I remember the image of him, stomach swollen, face and clothes covered in chocolate from where he'd found and devoured a whole cake.

It was that damned party again. I remember feeling quite exasperated, having just cleaned him up and found some acceptable smart clothes for him to wear in place of that suit, and now he was filthy again. Not to mention the fact that I'd had my eye on that cake too, and now there were only a few crumbs left.

"Thank you, Marie. Sherlock has quite a sweet tooth, but I learned quite early that he shouldn't actually have too much sugar."

"Well there's a chocolate éclair for each of you for afters. I think that diets are far better if you're allowed a day off every now and again, and one éclair won't hurt him, I'm sure."

"I agree. Thank you, Marie."

She left me and I sat and thought about my diet. She was right, if it was to be strictly adhered to day after day with no end in sight, I think I might go spare. Food isn't an addictive substance. It's a necessary substance and some areas of it, such as caffeine and sugar, might be said to have addictive qualities, and yet I find I just enjoy it far more than I should.

In addition, I know that I can't go more than half a day without coffee before the subsequent headache makes me want to decapitate myself with a hatchet.

I put this alongside Eddie's comments from earlier and I rang for Eddie again. He returned promptly.

"Eddie, do you know from where to source drugs?"

"Sir?"

"There must be places, or people. I'm afraid I don't know much about these things. I don't even know what is needed or how much it would cost. I'm asking, Eddie, would you be able to assist me with such a transaction? I wouldn't ask you to do anything you might feel uncomfortable with, but I need someone to point me in the right direction."

He looked astonished.

"Of course, I'm not suggesting you have first-hand knowledge of such things, but my personal grapevine, well you see, Eddie, I don't have a friend in order to have a friend of a friend. I was hoping that you might know someone who does."

"I'll see what I can find out sir."

"Thank you, Eddie."

He left again.

I took off my shoes and put my feet up on the sofa, with my head on a cushion. I found the position was not uncomfortable. I wondered how long it would take me to fall asleep on a sofa in my living room. The answer is apparently 'not long'.

I woke up less than an hour later, initially quite confused as to where I was and why I had been woken, and then I saw S stood over me, staring. I don't know if he had said or done anything to wake me, but either way his presence was strangely unnerving.

I sat up, slightly annoyed that he had found me at such a disadvantage.

"You got your people to tidy up then."

"Yes, and I'd rather not put them through it all again tomorrow, so just behave yourself will you?"

"How long do you intend keeping me prisoner here?"

"Oh, I've thought about that. While I'd like to get a second opinion, my current estimate is approximately thirty days. Be a love and ring the bell will you? I'm desperate for more coffee." He didn't move. "You can ask for a coffee too if you want one, or tea if you prefer."

"What do you mean, thirty days? You're not a judge! You can't imprison me here!"

"Oh I know that, Sherlock, don't be so frustrating. I'm quite clearly trying to help you if you'd just let me."

"I don't need your help."

"Clearly you do!" I shouted quite loudly and instantly regretted losing my temper. It's never good to be the first to lose the moral high ground. "Now listen here, Sherlock, this is what I have decided. You will stay here in this apartment for as long as it takes you to stop taking drugs. When you've gone for a period of thirty days without having taken any, you will be free to leave."

"So we're twenty-four hours in already then."

"Oh, do you want to start now?"

"What choice do I have?"

"The choice is entirely yours Sherlock. You're free to continue with your habit as long as you want, but you will not be allowed to leave the building until you've gone thirty days without consuming anything you shouldn't."

He stood there for a while, just staring at me. Quite suddenly he laughed. It was a vicious laugh, devoid of his usual humour.

"So, you're basically going to let me live here, in your flat in Mayfair, while your servants cook and clean for me, and while providing me with all the drugs I want to take?"

For a split second I doubted myself. He turned to look at me again, looking bitter and angry.

"And in the meantime your trained monkey prevents me from leaving! What do you think I am? Some kind of plaything?"

He still knows how to bait me. I stood up and got close to him. "Listen to me you stupid, stupid man! You don't have the first idea how many people are already trying to make you better!"

"Better? Am I not good enough for you already, Mycroft?"

"No! No you're not! You're a complete waste! A god-awful waste of magnificent potential! You're so, so much better than this and you know it too, you idiot! You think that you're the one in control, but you're not remotely! You can't think beyond the end of a sentence, can you? You've _never_ been like this, you've _always_ been able to escape me before but now you're the pawn of a miserable little drug and you can't stop it, can you?"

I was almost shaking with rage. S looked mildly shocked too. And for a moment he looked hurt, as if I'd wounded him. It was gone in an instant though and he was angry again.

"I need cocaine. I prefer a solution but it's all the same really. The sooner the better." He walked to the door. I followed him into the hallways and shouted after him.

"There are clean clothes for you in the dining room, and some soap. For God's sake clean yourself up, Sherlock. You stink!"

Possibly not my finest moment.

He went back to the spare room and closed the door behind him.

For a moment I stood in the hallway, my heart racing and tense with rage. I noticed something I find quite odd: I didn't dislike the feeling. There was something that made me feel quite energised and, _free_ almost, simply because I had told someone what I actually think of them. It's interesting.

I decided to utilise the energy, first by texting S's drug preferences to Eddie, and then by cribbing up on the Grant-Bonsell treaty for the meeting on Monday. I was deeply engrossed with this when Marie appeared to tell me that dinner was served.

I was just settling down to eat the frankly delicious pheasant that Marie had prepared, when she returned looking anxious. She apologised for interrupting and informed me S was looking a little unwell.

I sighed at my pheasant, and went in to see him immediately. He did look decidedly under the weather. He was sweating, shaking and his eyes were wide and glassy.

"What's the matter with you?" I asked him.

"I need cocaine. I need it now. I think I'm going to die of boredom!"

I was surprised that the effects of withdrawal would show themselves so quickly, but then I remembered my coffee analogy.

"I'm working on it, Sherlock. These things take time."

"Just let me go and get what I need." I must have looked wary at this because he almost begged me. "I'll come back! I promise, just let me go and get what I need. It'll be quicker than you researching and trying to choose between the three best options. Please, Mycroft, I promise I'll come back if you want me to!"

I believed him. He looked quite desperate.

"Fine. I'll get Eddie to go with you."

"You don't have to."

"I think I do. For some inexplicable reason, I _do_ want you back, Sherlock. Tidy yourself up, he'll be here within a minute."

"I don't need to tidy myself up for a drug dealer."

"You have to tidy yourself up for Eddie though."

He scowled but when he appeared in the corridor a minute later, he had clearly attempted to straighten his clothes and had tucked his shirt in.

He looked eager, excited. I found I felt unbearably sad that such an outing could mean so much to him. I tried to squash the feeling and returned to the treaty. It was no good though, and I found after half an hour I was getting anxious about his safe return. After an hour I'd abandoned the treaty and was pacing the front room.

Fortunately, they returned safely just as I was deciding to call the police to find them. Eddie left Sherlock by the door, merely nodding to me through the doorway. Sherlock didn't acknowledge me at all. He just walked in and straight to the spare room clutching a grubby looking paper bag in his hand.

I followed him in and he was sat on the bed with the contents of the bag poured in front of him. This seemed to consist of a number of syringes, and a small unlabelled bottle. From what I could tell, the bottle had previously held baby-food. There was a dog-collar there too and I couldn't work out what it was for until S slipped it around his arm and pulled it tight.

"Why are you watching me?" he asked.

"I'm learning," I said to him, without really thinking.

He grunted in response. Apparently that's an expectable reason to stand and watch your sibling destroy himself.

His fingers, though shaking, worked quite nimbly. He didn't register the moment the needle pierced the skin, but I am fairly sure I winced on his behalf. He injected, removed the needle and the tourniquet, looked at the small bead of blood rising on his skin for a moment, then shook his sleeve back down and tossed the needle into the wastepaper bin.

The reality of what I was witnessing hit me and I felt quite nauseous for a moment.

"Are the needles clean?"

"Yes." He looked up at me and I must have been staring at him. "Do you want some?" he asked as if he was offering to share an afternoon tea with him.

"God no!"

The horror in my voice must have sounded, and for a moment he looked up at me and I was surprised to see his eyes were wet with tears. It was gone in a moment, and he flopped back on the bed where he writhed and stared at the ceiling.

I looked at the needles, and they did look clean and were individually wrapped. They actually looked as if they had been stolen from a hospital store-room at some point. Either way, I made a note to replace them with some I can be certain of and also to provide him with a proper sharps bin.

"You should try to eat something. The soup's probably cold by now, but I'm sure Marie can re-heat it." Of course, thinking about it now, she would have already left for the evening. He didn't acknowledge me and I was fairly sure he'd eat the soup cold or not eat at all.

"Thank you, Mycroft," he said just as I'd turned to the door. I've thought about it for several hours and still don't quite know what he was thanking me for.

I left him alone.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sunday 29__th__ December. 14:03_

S seemed to be settled for the evening. Though it was still early, I was beginning to feel the strain so I retired to my bedroom. Though I'd like to think he'd respect the privacy of my personal bedroom, I was not confident enough to leave the door unlocked.

I heard him moving around the flat in the early hours of the morning. I was aware of him being in the kitchen, and I hoped he wasn't upsetting Marie's careful order. He also spent some time in the living room and I was tempted to go and check that he wasn't destroying anything in there either, but a part of me sensed that he was only doing this to see what levels of activity he would have to demonstrate before I gave in and went and monitor him.

I decided to give myself my own list of 'points at which I will intervene.' I decided that for anything short of him setting fire to something, or being in a position where his death (or my own) was imminent, I'd leave him alone. Happy with that decision, I found it was quite easy to block out any other sounds and to go to sleep.

This morning was relatively easy. He slept late which is not unusual for him and I was quite able to work without being disturbed. Being Sunday, Marie was not working, though of course she had left several meals prepared for me. I was more than a little disappointed to find that these had all been eaten in the night.

S appeared at lunchtime, just as lack of sustenance was beginning to make me irritable.

"You're not going to wash then?"

"No."

"May I ask why not?"

"Experiment."

I ignored what was clearly an answer designed to elicit another question. After a moment S stomped around the room and went to stare at the books on my bookshelf. He didn't appear to choose anything to read though.

"All your books are boring," he told me.

I didn't answer. I could sense my silence was irritating him and I found I was slightly pleased about this.

"Have you got any food?" he asked.

"I did have food. Now I do not." I was very pleased that I was able to utter this in an unemotional tone.

"What are you going to eat then?"

"I have dispatched the security guard for something."

"I could escape then."

"I doubt it."

He turned to look at me and noticed the cardboard coffee cup on the coffee table and sneered.

"Do you rely on someone to bring you coffee from a shop if your cook isn't available?"

"If it's inconvenient for me to leave the apartment, yes."

"So you can't cook at all?"

"No. Can you? If so, I'm sure you'll find everything you need to make yourself a meal in the kitchen."

He scowled and I was pleased again. It did occur to me that I was acting in as childish a fashion as he was, but I hadn't had my lunch so I found it difficult to care. He threw himself down on an armchair and put his feet up on my coffee table. I refused to tell him to move them despite the fact that seeing them there made my flesh crawl.

"I'll just have some of whatever Eddie brings."

"I didn't order anything for you."

"You can't starve me! You're already unlawfully holding me prisoner. You can't starve me too! It's against one of those conventions that you probably wrote."

"Oh you know full well I'll have written enough loop-holes in those laws to ensure I can do pretty much what I want with you."

"I'm _not_ your toy, Mycroft!"

"No. If you were, I'd have you returned to the shop as faulty goods."

"I'm not your child either!"

"Then stop behaving like one!"

I suspect we'd have continued bickering indefinitely if it wasn't for the appearance of Eddie with more coffee and food. Sherlock continued to talk, probably taking the opportunity of there being company as he knew I wouldn't disgrace myself by maligning him in front of another person. I have to admit, I didn't pay much attention to any of it as I was utterly distracted by the pie, cake and coffee that were now in front of me.

Eddie excused himself and I ate. After a moment, I had had my hunger satisfied enough to be able to become irritated by S watching me with a hungry expression on his face as if he hadn't gorged himself quite ably during the night. He put me in mind of a stray dog, sadly watching for crumbs falling from passers-by.

I gathered up my food and reading materials and locked myself in the dining room, which is where I am now, re-energising for what I suspect will be a trying afternoon.

* * *

_Sunday 29__th__ December 23:45_

I need to get S out of the flat. He's hopelessly distracting and I honestly don't think I'm capable of taking care of him. I do not intend to deviate from the stated course of action. He must stay here until he can go thirty days without taking any drugs. I am, however, getting to the point where I want to make that happen sooner rather than later.

At three O'clock this afternoon, Eddie's Sister-in-Law, Doctor Charlotte Lucas, came to see us. She was extremely helpful, despite the fact that S was unnecessarily aggressive towards her. She provided me with some of her own books and also suggested I make contact with a support group for myself. She suggested Al-Anon. I'm not convinced I could bear talking to another person about this.

I outlined my plan to Dr Lucas, and she basically approved. She agreed that thirty days without drugs would be an excellent start, and though there is no guarantee that a drug free life would continue after this, S will have made it through the hardest stages, at which a relapse is most likely.

S did not join in with our enthusiasm.

Though Dr Lucas approved of a slow withdrawal from the drugs, she did not approve of my plan of letting S dictate the amounts he needed. She also suggested that giving him free and unfettered access to them might not be sensible. S sniggered at me, and again, I wondered if the experts do simply know better than I do. Dr Lucas and I continued to discuss withdrawal from cocaine, remedies for some of the more difficult symptoms, and I found her input quite illuminating.

S announced that it was irrelevant anyway, as he had no intention of stopping anything, quickly or slowly. He then stalked out of the room in a huff. I thanked Dr Lucas for her time, and escorted her to the door.

I went to the spare room afterwards to see if any sense could be talked into S. He took great joy in telling me that he had broken his personal record with the amount of cocaine he'd just taken. I looked at the bottle that I had assumed would last him a week or maybe two, and was shocked to notice it was half empty.

I have to admit I felt momentarily hurt by this. I found nothing at all to say to him, so I left him alone and went back to my bedroom. I felt slightly upset that I'd been forced to hide there on two consecutive evenings because of Sherlock's selfishness.

I spent a long time wondering whether I should cede to the doctor's superior knowledge on the subject, but I kept coming back to the fact that though she clearly has an excellent understanding of addicts in general, she doesn't have an excellent understanding of S.

Annoyingly, I had to face the fact that I do have an excellent understanding of S, and I ought to have foreseen that he would do such a thing just to spite me. He is utterly ridiculous at times.

I also forced myself to accept the fact that part of me might be reluctant to insist and to manage his withdrawal for him, simply because I know how little he likes me already. I find I really don't want him to hate me. I don't want him to blame me for any withdrawal symptoms.

With any other person this wouldn't bother me at all. I see no real need to engage with him regularly in my life. I see no reason to care whether he exists or not. I'm immensely frustrated by the fact that logic is completely absent when it comes to what I think about him.

I spent the evening telling myself that he doesn't matter at all, and we'd both be much happier if I just opened the door and sent him on his way.

But that annoying little voice stops me. The one that really doesn't want him to die. The one that keeps harping on 'but he's my _brother'._

I irritate myself at times. Goodness, in a short while I'll be reduced to biting my fingernails.

I pondered these things for an hour or so, until I heard him leave his room to vomit. I wondered what he'd eaten.

I tried to absorb further treaty information for the next half hour, but I found my mind was simply not capable of focussing on the job in hand. I thought back to that bloody party, watching S, confused and upset, slowly vomit up the chocolate cake, hidden behind the gardener's shed a long way away from the guests.

He was shaking and terrified. Partly this was because he always has been relatively hardy and doesn't quite understand the basic symptoms that most people take in their stride. He seemed to think that the vomiting heralded his immediate death. He wouldn't let me leave him, and when I tried to do so he wailed (quietly) that he might die. I'm still not sure what he expected me to do about it if he did.

I knew that a large part of his worry was connected to our parent's reaction if I alerted them to the fact that S did actually look as though he might expire at any moment. He was slowly coming to terms with the fact that eating a whole cake might be quite misguided not only for physical reasons, but it might also be considered something naughty.

I remember the look of horror on his face when we heard the sound of someone walking around to the back of the shed. It was probably quite effectively mirrored on my own.

Back in the present, I became aware of a quiet knocking on my door. It was the knock of someone who knows he needs to be heard, but really doesn't want to be. I got up and unlocked the door.

Sherlock was stood there not looking so very different than he had behind the tool-shed. His eyes were wide and he was very pale, though his lips were bright red.

"Mycroft, I don't think I'm very well," he told me.

I thought he was probably right.

Fortunately for both of us, time had passed and now I at least had the ability to raise help for him. I called Doctor Williams' direct line and outlined the situation while S slowly slid down the wall opposite and ended up sat on the floor. Dr W. agreed that he would come round to check S and advise whether he required a trip to casualty or not. I desperately hoped this wouldn't be necessary as it was Martin's day off, so would be quite inconvenient to take him there. On the other hand, there would be people to take care of him there and I had no one to leave him with tomorrow.

He was looking quite disoriented now and without warning he vomited again. For a man who isn't sick regularly and doesn't eat a lot, he has impressive range.

"Sherlock! For God's sake! That's an antique Persian hall runner!" I told him, but he seemed too disoriented to hear me. He vomited again.

"Will there be any more?" I asked but again he didn't respond. "Sherlock, you have to go back to your room. Can you walk?"

All of a sudden his eyes rolled back in his head and I panicked just a little. Fortunately, it was just for a second, and when I took his arm to help him up, he did try to stand and shaking and leaning on me he went with me to the guest room. He curled up on his bed, but didn't try to sleep. His eyes were unnaturally wide, as if he didn't dare to close them.

I started to leave but he quickly sat up.

"Mycroft?"

"What do you want?"

He looked confused again. I felt he desperately wanted to ask me to stay with him but didn't know how and I was reluctant to offer.

"Could I have some water please?"

"Still or sparkling?"

He frowned and looked almost ready to cry. "Do you have a tap?"

"Oh. Yes. Of course."

I hurried away and went to find a glass and a tap. While I was in Marie's kitchen I had a quick look round for a bucket to leave him with in case he didn't feel able to make it to the bathroom again, but I couldn't find such a thing. I did find a stack of mixing bowls and decided that one of them would have to do. I'd replace the set for her tomorrow.

S didn't seem able to sit up, so I left the glass on the bedside table and I put the bowl on the bed. He was panting quite obviously by now. His eyes were still open though.

He also smelled utterly foul and his clothes seemed to have aged twenty-years over the course of the day. There was no time to bath him before Dr W. was due, and the idea of washing him down filled me with horror. I couldn't leave him looking quite so grotesque when we were expecting company though. I steeled myself and headed to the dining room to go through the clothes Anthea had purchased.

There were two sets of pyjamas, and though I was slightly bitter to notice she'd chosen Medium for him where I was always provided with Extra Large, I selected a pair and took them back to his room.

Trying to strip him put me in mind of our fight on Friday. It took me quite some time, and I'd built up quite a sweat myself by the time I'd managed to get his t-shirt on. I quailed at the thought of removing his underwear so I left them on and slipped the trousers on over the top.

I was about to turn my attention to the mess in the hall when the there was a knock at the front door and I cursed as I realised I'd missed my opportunity. I tried to remind myself that Dr W will have seen similar, and perhaps worse before, but I was still quite mortified. After all, he hadn't seen such a thing in my residence.

Dr Williams was brusque, but reassuring. S was declared 'very silly' which I knew already, but 'not in immediate danger' which I can honestly say was a relief. He gave him something to reduce his heart-rate and something else to make him sleep. I was told to make sure he got plenty to drink and that was that as far as Sherlock's physical examination was concerned. The doctor did take me aside for a brief chat however.

"Mister Holmes, while your kindness here is quite clear, I do know a very good place where your brother would be well taken care of. I'm sure they'd be able to take him off your hands first thing tomorrow."

I felt the strangest sensation. On the one hand, I felt utter relief that someone else had made this suggestion to me. On the other, my mind fought and rebelled at hearing him spoken of as if he was an unwanted piece of furniture. In the end I suspect I just gaped inefficiently.

"It's called The Poplars. They're extremely good. Would you like me to make the referral for you?"

"No!"

He looked surprised, and in fairness my response may have been a little forceful.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then. It might be worth having someone keep an eye on him tonight if you have someone available."

"Keeping an eye for what?"

"Well, make sure he's breathing, not lapsing into unconsciousness, not vomiting blood. That sort of thing."

I was speechless.

"Of course, you should feel free to call me back here at any time, though if he does stop breathing, etc. You might be better served to call an ambulance directly."

I stuttered my agreement and mechanically showed him to the door. After I'd closed it, I stood there for what seemed like a stupidly long time. I don't quite remember feeling so out of my depth ever before. Even as a child behind the tool-shed, I knew our parents were technically responsible for S, even though they wouldn't help him the way he needed helping. Now there was just me.

Again, I found myself sorely tempted to just send him away, while simultaneously feeling that I absolutely couldn't.

I went back to the guest room. Sherlock was looking sleepy, but he wasn't quite asleep.

"Sherlock, you have to drink a lot of water!" I realised I was using the loud and slow voice that people tend to use when talking to someone they believe to be simple. It worked anyway, and he looked up at me.

"I'm not going to sit you up! You have to do it yourself. Drink your water, Sherlock!"

After a moment, he slowly shuffled himself up to a sitting position and started to drink his water.

"Good! Well done!"

I gave him what I'm almost sure was an encouraging smile. He finished the water.

"Well done, Sherlock. I'll get some more for you, shall I?"

He frowned as if I was something complicated for him to figure out. He appeared to give up and he flopped back on the bed and shut his eyes.

I felt that the water was a small victory and I took courage from it. I set off to see if I could sort out the problem in the hall. I didn't want to simply leave it there for Dianne to sort out in the morning, partly through pride but mostly because the idea of having vomit in the house revolted me. I headed towards her cleaning cupboard. She kept it in delightful order, and I immediately spotted three smart looking buckets. Feeling even more empowered by this find, I grabbed one to take to S in exchange for the mixing bowl.

Sherlock was asleep now and I briefly worried that if he was to wake in need, he might start looking for a bowl and not for a bucket, but I reasoned that he was reasonably intelligent and he'd probably work it out. Probably.

I investigated the cupboard again and there were a baffling array of products there. I was beginning to panic again, when I spotted a bottle of bleach. I know enough to know that that will destroy pretty much anything that might have poured out of S's stomach so I grabbed it, along with gloves, a scrubbing brush and a second bucket which I filled with hot water. I spent a moment to give thanks for the wonderful orderliness of my staff. (Note, perhaps bonuses when S has finally gone might be in order for all of them. It's quite soon after Christmas for such a thing, but it has been earned.)

I was feeling positively victorious as I squirted the bleach onto the troubled spots. I braced myself to sit down close enough to work it in with the brush. My triumph disappeared quite quickly as I noticed a strange thing was happening. The parts of the rug that had been exposed to the bleach were becoming discoloured. I vainly hoped that it was a temporary reaction, but as I diluted it with more and more of the water, it became apparent that this was not the case. Quite soon, the rug was sodden as well as discoloured.

I sat back against the wall where S had been just over an hour before. I felt my eyes become hot and tingly and I was suddenly struck by the realisation I was going to cry. Fortunately the shock of the realisation prevented the crisis.

I abandoned the rug and the bucket and brush and stole into my room, where I am now, to document this.

I am completely incapable of taking care of my brother. I can't even clean a rug.

The rug is ruined. It's irreplaceable and worth a fortune. Well, it was. But I'm capable of recognising that aside from its rarity and monetary value, it is just a rug. S is at least as valuable, at least as rare, and at utterly irreplaceable. And he's my brother. And I am hopeless.


	5. Chapter 5

_Monday 30__th__ December. 23:52._

Today has not been fun. This ought to be the time at which I document the discussions so far relating to the G-B treaty, but I find I cannot. The primary reason for this is that I sat through them like a zombie due to sleep deprivation, and the secondary reason is that S has driven all other things from my mind.

I am furious. I am furious for so many reasons, but at the moment I am furious because every time his life comes into contact with mine, everything of _mine_ becomes eclipsed and forgotten for everything of _his._

I'm so tired of it all.

After I finished last night's entry, it occurred to me that I was being somewhat remiss in keeping a watch over S. I went into the guest room to quickly check him and he hadn't stopped breathing and there was no evidence to suggest he'd been vomiting blood. Checking he hadn't lapsed into unconsciousness was more difficult. He was clearly asleep but as far as I could tell, that was allowed. I retrieved my laptop and did a quick search to find out what unconsciousness might mean in this situation, and apparently he could be allowed to sleep as long as he responded to outside stimulus in some way.

He stirred slightly when I poked him hard in the ribs, so I was satisfied.

I went prepared myself for bed, after which I checked him again. After that, despite being quite tired, I lay in my bed unable to sleep. I had the irrational thought that at any point after I'd left him, he might have stopped breathing, fallen unconscious or started vomiting blood, so I checked him again.

Realising that spending the night this way would be completely inefficient, I gathered up my duvet and a pillow and went back to the guest room to spend the night in the armchair there. I took my notes with me and I was able to read some of them. I also dozed several times, but when the morning came, I felt quite dreadful and unprepared for today's negotiations.

There was no hope to postpone. Simply getting this far had been the work of months and we desperately wanted to have an official announcement before the week was up. S was still sleeping soundly, so I went to see whether a cool shower would do anything to stimulate my mind. It did not. By the time I'd finished, Marie had thankfully arrived and I fell upon breakfast and coffee like a starving man. I called Anthea and asked her to install a trained nurse of any description in my guest room, and I set off to face the day.

The meeting was long. The coffee was bitter. The lunch was inadequate. I'd like to say something about the negotiation, but I honestly can't remember a thing.

My only useful input was to suggest that we broke for the day at 19:00.

I called home to prepare Marie for my early return. Virtually as soon as I got through the door I was provided with my slippers, had my tie and jacket removed, and was ushered through to the dining room where I found the most welcome pile of toast and pate that a man's ever seen. It was followed promptly by roast duck with chilli and pineapple. Afterwards there was fruit salad with the thoughtful addition of double cream, and the information that a bath had been drawn for me.

If I was the type, and if Marie hadn't been in a happy and long established relationship, I swear I would marry her without a second's pause. As I soaked in the bath I considered whether having a similar person in his life might make Sherlock a bit more bearable. Or at least less likely to kill himself.

Afterwards, in pyjamas and a dressing gown I felt much more able to sit with Anthea in the living room for debriefing. I updated her on my progress at the talks, and hopefully she caught the subtext that I will need her to review minutes, make notes, and update me in return. She usually picks up on such things, even though the need is quite rare.

She informed me that Nurse Dominic had been with S all day, and had reported that nothing unexpected had happened.

Nurse Dominic was summoned. He seemed quite uncertain as to what to say to me, feeling the need to inform me of Sherlock's complete silence, inertia and refusal to eat, as if I couldn't have predicted all of this. He was able to tell me that there had been no sudden unconsciousness, vomiting of blood, and that my brother had continued to breathe quite effectively all day.

I thanked him for his time, and asked if he would return tomorrow for similar duties. He hesitated but when I suggested I'd pay holiday rates, he agreed.

I almost changed my mind when he told me he'd removed Sherlock's… _things_.

"Why on earth?" I demanded.

He looked cross for a moment. "I'm a _nurse_. I'm not going to leave him with something that might kill him!"

"Where did you put it?"

"They're in a cupboard in the kitchen."

Marie's kitchen! I was quite horrified. Dominic looked embarrassed.

"Would you like to call the service for someone different tomorrow?"

I considered. He had clearly acted with the best of intentions, and I hadn't had time to instruct him properly. Tomorrow was a much later start time at work, and I'd be able to outline the specific duties here before leaving for the day.

"No. I would like you to return. Could you be here tomorrow at eight? Holiday rates still apply."

He nodded, and looked slightly relieved. I could quickly see that he was supporting elderly parents with whatever he could earn straight out of nursing school. He was committed to his job though, as were they. They'd all sacrificed so that this young man could follow his desired career, even though it meant he'd be working for little pay in gruelling conditions. (Note: look into NHS pay-scales again.) He nodded at me and Anthea escorted him to the door.

I summoned my courage and went in to see S.

I was surprised to see that he was sat at the dressing table, staring out of the window, looking almost normal. Long hair and beard notwithstanding. What hope this gave me was extinguished by his first words to me.

"I need my stuff. That child you sent removed it."

"Yes. That was a mistake. I'll have it returned to you."

He looked surprised. "Thank you."

"He'll be here again tomorrow."

"I don't need him."

"No, but I do. I'm not happy with the idea of leaving you here alone."

"I'm not alone. There's the woman who does the cooking, and the woman who does the cleaning and the woman who seems to type stuff and do your every bidding. And there's Eddie. I thought he'd be wherever you were, but he wasn't. You know, for a recluse, you really do keep a lot of people around you."

"You tried to leave again then?"

"I needed a cigarette. I didn't think you'd approve of me smoking in here."

"You don't smoke." He rolled his eyes at me. "That wasn't your reason for trying to get out, was it? You intended to actually leave. Dominic didn't tell me this."

"Maybe he's not so bad after all."

I sighed to myself. I had hoped that yesterday would have had some impact on him.

"Sherlock, you really should try to eat something. Marie has said she'll make whatever you want."

"I don't want to eat."

"You have to."

"I don't want to throw up on your Persian rug again. _You_ don't want me to throw up on your Persian rug again."

"Oh that doesn't matter. It's beyond repair anyway."

He actually looked contrite for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said. Funny how he'll respect things more than he'll respect people.

"Oh no, I suspect it could have coped with the vomit. It was the bleach it couldn't deal with."

He turned to look at me. "You put bleach on an antique Persian rug? Are you insane?"

"I'm focussing on the fact that I removed the vomit, so technically I achieved my aim."

He snorted and I smiled in return. Some of the tension was beginning to fall a little. This felt almost what I imagine being brothers should feel like.

"Thank you for letting me have my drugs back," he said quietly.

"So, you're going to keep taking them?"

He nodded and I was depressed again. I had hoped that last night might have shaken some sense into him, and I told him as much.

"Look, there's no need for me to stop entirely!" he told me. "Something similar happened nine months ago when I took something that wasn't quite right. It had been mixed with something and I had a reaction. I dealt with that by switching suppliers and everything Dave has given me has been fine so far. I overestimated last night, but all I need to do is moderate down again. It's not a problem. You shouldn't worry."

I was stuck. I did worry and couldn't help but worry, but of course I couldn't tell him that. I couldn't fault his logic either. Technically he could probably go on indefinitely taking a small amount of the stuff every day. I didn't think he'd be able to restrain himself though, but at the same time I couldn't prove that.

I found I was angry and tired but didn't want to tell him that either. I could tell that he knew though.

"Look, can't we compromise?" he suggested. "You like negotiating. Couldn't I say that I'll take a set amount each day? Enough for me to get rid of the boredom, but not so much that you'd consider it a habit."

"A set amount every day _is_ a habit, Sherlock."

"OK, but it's not an addiction. That's the problem here isn't it? That you think I can't stop or control it. What if I prove that I can for your thirty days, then you can just let me go? _Please_, Mycroft!"

"That's pretty much what I've been suggesting all along, but the set amount would be zero."

"That isn't fair!"

"Fair? What sort of fairness do you mean? You need to stop, Sherlock, and what's worrying me at the moment is that you're so far from normal that you don't realise that that's the truth!"

"No! Not _the_ truth! _Your_ truth, Mycroft! You've always assumed that just because you're the oldest you know better than me, and that's never, _never_ been the case!"

He was on his feet now, tense and clearly angry. I wondered if he was going to fight me again. I could also feel my own calm slipping away, and wondered if I was going to end up fighting him first.

"Sherlock, please! For the love of God, can't you just stop! _Please!_" I found that I was getting too emotional again.

"Why does it matter to you, Mycroft? Why? Am I just some little project of yours? Are you just doing some kind of experiment on me just to see what it's like? You don't actually care! You've known about it for ages and you haven't cared at all! Why now? Why are you bothering me about all of this now?"

"Previously I thought you could handle yourself, but I was wrong!"

"So what? I've always been the one who failed! Why change that now?"

"Because I can! Because you shouldn't be the one who failed! Because, because, because…" I found in the heat of the argument, I was losing the ability to think clearly. This has never happened to me in the past, and I found it unnerving which compounded the problem.

"Why are you being so mean to me!" he screamed. There were tears too and I was almost certain that he wasn't just crying so I'd give in. Non-the-less, seeing him in such a state was not helping me to calm down.

"I'm not trying to be mean! I'm just trying to help!"

"Help? Don't you think your help's coming about thirty years too late, Mycroft? But you couldn't help then because you were too much a coward, and so you bully me now!" He pushed me hard to underscore his point.

He didn't need to. I was stung.

As I stood there I found my heart was racing, my breath was short and my head was pounding. I realised that somehow I'd made tears run down my face. This was a first for me and the surprise gave me a moment of clarity.

It focussed him too and he frowned. "Why do you care?" he asked quietly.

"Because I do! Because try as I might to just squash the feeling, it turns out I don't want you to die! And so watching you killing yourself _hurts_! But I know how to help you now, Sherlock! I know now!"

I charged out the room and he followed me to the kitchen. A very surprised and clearly uncomfortable Marie stared at us with wide eyes.

"Where are the damned drugs?" I asked her. She pointed towards a cupboard and I ignored the needles, but removed the bottle.

Sherlock looked almost eager when he saw me. I realised for one tiny moment, he thought I was going to hand it over and shove him back out on the street and wash my hands of him. It hurts me to know that this is what he wanted me to do. His face fell as I marched past him.

"What are you doing? Where are you going?"

I ignored him and walked quickly to the main bathroom.

"No! No! No! No!"

He followed me in and grabbed me from behind, trying to keep me within his grasp, while reaching for the bottle. I held it at arm's length and when he was forced to let go of me to get to it, I spun around, desperately trying to undo the bottle. When the lid was off, he rushed at me, trying to grab it again. I spilled some on myself and noticed a look of horror on his face and he tried to be more careful. He had his hand over mine, trying to hold the bottle steady while trying to pull it towards him.

I was yelling at him to stop it and let go, and he was screaming at me to give it to him.

I'm not sure what possessed me, but I kicked him hard on the kneecap with the ball of my foot. He yelped in pain and sprang backwards. He didn't let go though and my hand followed his. Together we smashed the bottle hard into the side of the basin, and it broke and fell to the floor.

Sherlock looked shocked for a second, and then with a roar he pushed me hard. I lost my footing and fell backwards into the bathtub. When I'd managed to get upright again, I found Sherlock crouched on the floor, dipping his fingers into the spilled liquid and sucking them.

"Yes," I told him. "You're not addicted in any way. You're completely in control."

He ignored me and didn't look up from his task. I walked past him and out of the room.

Anthea and Marie were in the hallway, talking quietly and looking quite anxious.

"Get out," I told them before coming into my room and closing the door. It wasn't fair, and I will apologise but I can't face them just now.

I was shaking with rage and it took a full twenty minutes before I could calm myself down to merely 'angry' so that I could start documenting here. During that time I heard Sherlock leave the flat and I did nothing to stop him. I heard the commotion as Eddie brought him back again. I heard the guest-room door shut and the lock slide home. I couldn't face the thought of seeing Eddie either. I couldn't bear the thought of making a decision to either set S free or keep him captive.

Now the anger has gone and I'm left feeling strangely hollow.

The thing that disappoints me most isn't Sherlock. It's me. It's the fact that S is right. I am a coward and I always have been, and I didn't help him the way that I could have during our childhood. And I don't want to risk his anger and hatred now by simply forcing him to do what needs to be done.

Father had looked at the two of us with utter disgust that day behind the tool-shed.

"Take him away," he instructed me. "Clean him up." He walked away.

There was nothing for it but to take S's befouled hand and take him back to the house. I took him up to the nursery. Well, his room as it was by then, and we walked through to the bathroom that joined our two rooms together.

I ordered him to strip and I ran him his second bath of the day.

S seemed to revive as he got into the hot water and I sat upon the toilet lid hugging my knees, watching him splash about.

"Mycroft, you know that woman with the big straw hat? The one with flowers on it?"

"Yes. Jane."

"Yes, her. Do you think Mummy knows that she's sleeping with Daddy?"

"No."

"I don't mean real sleeping, I mean sex stuff."

"I know. No."

"Should I tell her?"

"No."

"Why doesn't she know?"

"Some people can't tell."

"Should I tell Daddy I know?"

"No. Definitely not."

"He's going to be angry, isn't he?"

"Not if you don't tell him that you know."

"No, I mean about the cake. He probably wanted to eat it himself."

"Don't worry about it. He might not be that angry." He was though. I could always tell.

"I can always tell when he's angry with me," Sherlock told me. "It's any time he's awake." He submerged himself beneath the water for a moment. "Probably sometimes when he's asleep too," he said when he surfaced again.

He was trying to be funny, and I suspect it was in response to how worried I must have looked. It was true though; our father loathed him. I wondered how S didn't spend his life quaking in fear as I did, even though I didn't have nearly as much to fear. He knew what was about to happen. We both did. We both knew he'd return distraught and shaken as he did every time, but the prospect didn't seem to bother him in advance. He wasn't oblivious. He just seemed resigned.

Through the small, frosted glass window I could hear people saying goodbye and getting into their cars.

"You'd better get out," I told him.

After he'd dried himself he got into the pyjamas I'd selected for him. The oddest thing about my reaction to the whole of that incident is that I remember parts of it well, and I remember parts of it hardly at all, but I remember every detail of those pyjamas. They were pale blue with a peach pin-stripe with white, pearl-coloured buttons. They were good quality as all of our clothes were, but they were light, summer pyjamas.

I'd chosen them because I had hoped that father would see they were utterly unsuitable for a child of five with damp hair to be wearing in a cold place, and he'd leave the punishment for tonight.

We went to sit on Sherlock's bed and waited. I have a hazy recollection that he told me about a new ant-hill that he wanted me to investigate with him in the morning.

Father came in. He was a big man, bearded, dark eyed and gloomy. It was hard to imagine what he might have looked like with a smile.

"Come with me, Sherlock," he said.

We both got up, but I stayed still while S walked towards him, with a hard and resigned expression on his face that was far too old for his years.

I didn't say, "But he's only wearing pyjamas."

I didn't say, "Surely it's far too late for a five year old to be out."

I didn't say, "Can I please go too to look after him."

I didn't say, "It was just a chocolate cake, you stupid, ignorant shit! It was a fucking _cake _and he's _five!_"

I am a coward. I always have been.

When they'd left the room I darted through the bathroom to my own bed, got in and lay very still. Through my open window, I heard the sounds of Father trudging along the gravel path by the side of the house, and Sherlock in bare feet, hurrying to keep up with him.


	6. Chapter 6

_Tuesday 31st December. 22:07_

Today's negotiations were as tedious as yesterday's. I was able to apply myself to them slightly more efficiently, though once again I proposed an early finish. After the late start we had this morning, it was not as graciously accepted as it had been yesterday. Particularly as if we ran on another day, people would lose their New Year holiday. I had a sudden realisation that I might be hindering these negotiations, rather than helping them. I resolved to do better tomorrow, New Year or not.

Once again I had been distracted by S. The difference today was that the distraction was tinged with a sense of relief and perhaps even joy. I might even go so far as to suggest excitement.

Surprisingly, I'd slept very well. I don't even recall dreaming. I had to drag myself from the depths of sleep to wake up and when I did so I found Marie just placing a coffee on my bedside table. I was confused as to why she was at my flat quite so early. And why she saw fit to enter my bedroom.

"Marie?"

"Oh, you're awake, Sir. That's good. I couldn't work out the best way to wake you."

She looked relieved that this was no longer an issue.

"What's the time?"

"It's just past eight, sir. There's breakfast prepared for you, but I can make something transportable if you prefer."

"Christ!"

"Dominic is back as well, sir. I asked him to wait in the living-room."

"Why didn't my alarm go off? Was there a power cut? Did Sherlock do something to the fuse-box?"

She looked concerned. "I think your alarm clock did go, Sir. I think you just turned it off. I'll leave you alone, shall I?"

"Thank you. Wait, Marie. I spoke rudely to you yesterday. I'm sorry."

"It's fine sir. There were special circumstances."

"Even so." I sighed. "Has my brother been seen as yet this morning?"

"Well, the door's still locked, sir."

"Ah. Yes. Could you call Anthea and tell her that I'll be approximately half an hour late."

"Of course, sir."

She left. I drained the coffee almost instantly, not caring that it might burn my throat and wandered through to my bathroom. I was staring at myself in the mirror when I was suddenly struck by a sudden horror and I dashed to the guest room.

The key had been left on a small table in the hallway. I took a deep breath and unlocked the door.

Sherlock was alive. He was lying on the bed, and he looked red and puffy. He'd clearly been upset for some time. It didn't look as though he'd been asleep.

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry."

I was baffled. "For what?"

He wiped his face with his hand and shook his head.

"I'm sorry for locking you in the room," I told him. "It shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

He shook his head again. "It's fine."

"I just didn't think to unlock it. It didn't occur to me until just now."

"I'm not worried by locked doors."

"No, I just thought…" I hadn't thought at all and I hated myself for it.

"I'm really not. Perhaps I should be but I'm not. I have some anxiety when the lock is combined with darkness and more so with cold, but your heating and lights work, so you shouldn't worry, Mycroft." He took a deep breath and looked at me. "I want to stop. I want to stop taking the drugs, but I don't know whether I can."

I was amazed.

"What do you want to do? Do you want to stay here? I can have you admitted to an excellent facility if you prefer."

"I'd like to stay." He sat up on the bed. "I really don't know if I can do this, Mycroft. I don't know whether it's possible."

"Of course you can. Ordinary people do it; therefore of course you'll be able to." It seemed very simple from my point of view.

He gave me a look. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing! I don't know what you mean!" I was feeling such relief though. I could barely refrain from grinning like a Cheshire cat. I was sure he would notice.

"Mycroft, you know that this is going to be quite difficult, don't you?"

"Oh yes, I've read up. It's going to be terrible! Just awful!"

"Perhaps dialling down the level of glee then?" He gave me a wan smile though.

"Right, yes. And I'd better get off to work."

"OK. I'd better get on with, well, waiting for the withdrawal to hit me."

"Sherlock, what made you change your mind?"

"I don't know. Wanting to get the hell out of this flat is a factor."

I didn't know whether this meant he'd simply start again after his thirty days, and for the first time I realised I had no plan beyond that. I tried to focus on the fact that Dr Lucas had told me a relapse is less likely after that time. Maybe after they were out of his system he'd see the sense of not picking them up again.

"Fine. Well, I'll see you later. Dominic is here, as is Marie. I'll let them both know to let you have whatever you want. Well, baring the obvious of course."

He nodded.

As I was driven to work, a terrifying notion crept over me that S might be trying to trick me in some way. I did doubt him. He'd seemed normal enough during our conversation this morning, but he does have the ability to outwit me via his acting skills. Fortunately, I found it quite easy to focus on the positive, and the thought that he might be prepared to at least try filled me with that exciting feeling again. It would seem I very much want to trust him.

The coffee today was much more satisfactory. The food could have been better, but at least it was plentiful. There were some moments when we seemed to experience some vague jocularity between us, which was pleasant and unexpected.

Like I say, it's possible I wasn't quite focussed today.

On the way home, I got to musing about activities that I can use to distract S. He has mentioned a number of times that the drugs help with the boredom. Certainly in our childhood I learned that a bored Sherlock was a dangerous Sherlock.

Perhaps he'd like to go into business with me! I could do the boring administrational side, and he can do… well, whatever we choose to do with our business.

I filed this aside for a long term plan, and considered the short term. He and I spent two school-holidays playing chess with each other one year. I thoroughly enjoyed these games and I was fairly certain he did too. In fact, I couldn't quite remember why this had stopped suddenly. Certainly it might be worth a try.

I was feeling quite optimistic when I got back into the flat. More so when I discovered that S was up and about. He'd taken a bath and had also shaved (how does he continue to look so very young?). D reported that he'd eaten a small amount of lunch and was going to say more when S shouted at us.

"Don't talk about me as if I'm not here! I'm not a child!"

I thanked D and dismissed him, asking him to return tomorrow. S shouted that he didn't need a nurse, but I ignored him. I needed D to come back, even if he was just be on stand-by somewhere.

I went into the living room to see S. It was clear that in my eagerness to see a happy Sherlock, my original glance at him missed out a few pertinent things.

He is very thin at the moment. He looks almost skeletal and quite unwell. Though I had thought he was watching television, I now noticed that he wasn't watching anything at all, but was flicking through all the channels without absorbing or focussing on anything. He wasn't lounging on the sofa in a relaxed fashion, but was curled up, looking tense. With one hand he was holding onto a handful of his clothing. He was still in pyjamas and a dressing gown. Arguably this is quite normal for a convalescent, and more than normal for S, but still, he seemed very fragile sat there.

"Did you have a good day?" I asked him.

"Are you going to be this insufferable the whole time I'm here? Because I'm happy to stay in the spare room."

"It was just a question, Sherlock. I'm glad to see you up and about. I'm very glad that you bathed."

"That child nurse said it would help. Your cook said so too and I couldn't be bothered to fight the nosy busybodies."

"Help with what? The smell?"

"The pain."

"Is the pain very bad?"

"No, Mycroft. It's a good pain. Honestly, one of the best."

"What hurts? Will paracetamol help?"

"You want me to take less drugs don't you?"

"Fewer. And isn't that what you want too?"

"I don't care. I don't want to talk about it. Paracetamol won't help."

"OK." I went in and sat down on the armchair opposite him. I wondered when the best to mention my chess idea. My small-business idea might have to wait for another day.

I glanced at the television. "What are we watching?"

"Nothing!" he snapped. He dropped the remote control to the floor and turned away from me to huddle into a ball.

I picked up the remote control. "I might move us along from this. 'Jersey Shore?' What on earth could that be about? Actually, I don't want to know."

"Please stop talking. Your voice is offending my ears."

I almost apologised but instead remained silent. After a moment he rolled back over to look at me.

"Everything hurts, Mycroft! My skin is itching and sore. All of it. I want to just take it off or peel it or something. Everything aches." He bit back a sob. "God this is horrible!"

I didn't know what to say. By my calculations he hadn't taken anything for over twenty-four hours if you didn't include the small amount he may have ingested from the bathroom floor. I don't know at what point Dominic had removed his cocaine yesterday, or whether he'd taken anything before then, so I wasn't entirely sure at which point we ought to start calculating from.

I certainly wasn't expecting this amount of reaction in twenty-four hours. Though I needed to consider that this was S, so a certain amount of hyperbole might also have to be considered. I was contemplating all of this when S exploded.

"God I hate you! You're such a miserable old man! I can't believe you're making me go through this!"

He stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him. The floor shook slightly. I heard him go back to the guest room.

I decided to give him some space. I put the news on to tide me over until Anthea turned up to give me a full update. It never ceases to amaze me what the British Public will accept as news. I wonder how we keep the truly important stuff away from them. Probably by feeding them the drivel that we feed them, and making it sound important, I suppose.

Anthea arrived and we quickly got into global affairs. I am frustrated that the G-B treaty is keeping me from so many other things. It seems particularly ridiculous when I consider how little attention I've actually given the damned treaty in the past forty-eighty hours. I can vaguely tell myself that even being able to negotiate for the negotiations to take place took work, and I have justified my salary. But still, I do find I'm frustrated that I haven't been entirely committed to the talks as yet.

I absolutely must do better tomorrow.

S actually appeared in the dining room for dinner, but failed to eat much. He didn't speak much either but what he did say was quite revealing to his state of mind. Towards the end of the meal, well my meal, his was still barely touched, he cleared his throat.

"I need some cigarettes."

"You don't smoke."

"Yes clearly, Mycroft. I'm asking you for something I don't want or need, just for kicks."

I observed him a moment while he stared at the table-top. Of course he smokes. I can't believe I've missed all the signs. I put my napkin on the table and went to get notepaper and a pen.

"Write down what you need, and I'll arrange for supplies to be brought here for you."

He took the paper and pen and made some brief notes. His hand was shaking. After a moment of staring at the paper, he cleared his throat again.

"I was thinking, I feel fairly terrible. Right now, it's terrible. It's going to get worse. I was thinking, maybe we could keep something here. Perhaps a very small supply of cocaine. Not for me to take, but just to know it's here. And if it gets really bad, perhaps then, maybe, just for a tiny bit of relief. I think it might help."

It took me a moment to gather myself.

"No."

He snarled, stood up and stormed out again. He slammed the doors of both rooms.

I found my appetite had suddenly gone.

Here is something I find quite odd. I find, between the anguish and the tantrums, I'm enjoying him being here in the flat with me. We haven't had much of a fraternal relationship for a long time now, and I don't know whether we'll ever be what people refer to as 'close'. I like having him here anyway.

Certainly it is significantly better than him being dead somewhere.

I found I wished he would stay up with me to see the New Year in. He probably didn't even register the date. I didn't suggest it to him though.

* * *

_1__st__ January 14:27_

My hands are shaking so much I can barely type. I find it a fascinating phenomenon.

Today has been a whirl, and I barely know where to start documenting it. This is extraordinary. In all my life, I don't think I can remember reacting to anything as severely.

Sherlock got his cigarettes, and he proceeded to smoke a number of them in his room. I couldn't work out whether he was trying to get a reaction out of me, or whether the cigarettes did help him in some way.

They certainly didn't help him sleep, and I heard him wandering the flat at several points in the night. When I got up this morning, he was in my living room with a pile of books beside him, working his way through another.

"I thought my books were boring," I said with a smile.

He didn't acknowledge me in any way. I wasn't even sure he had heard me, but I decided that it was just lack of sleep and I left him to himself. I concentrated on breakfast, and on getting back on track for these negotiations. I effectively put him from my mind.

It was just after eleven when there was a knock on the meeting room door and Anthea came in. I knew that she wouldn't interrupt me unless there was an absolute emergency. I found myself desperately hoping it was a terrorist attack or a royal death or something of that ilk. Thinking about it now, that's probably quite selfish.

It was a wasted effort anyway. As soon as we were out of the room Anthea told me I was needed at home.

"Why? Is Dominic not there?"

"Yes sir, and I sent Eddie too. From what I can tell they're doing everything they can. But Marie called me and Sherlock is acting erratically."

"What does she want me to do about it?"

"I don't know sir."

"Perhaps I could call Doctor Williams to go and see him."

"Yes sir. Should I make the phone-call for you?"

"Yes. Wait, did they say what was wrong?"

"From what I can tell, sir, Sherlock is distressed."

I frowned. "Could you go home and get a direct assessment?"

"Yes sir."

"No, wait." I glanced at the door to the negotiation room. "No, I'll go back."

I went in to see them. I have been present in meetings where some delegate or other has been called away for personal reasons. In these cases, I have generally thought that the delegate's priorities have been wrong. Well, apart from that one who went into labour, but then I was mainly concerned for the carpet. I'm told these things can get messy.

I simply repeated what one of these people had said.

"I'm sorry, ladies, gentlemen, but I have been called away. I do hope to be back for the afternoon session, and in the meantime, I am convinced that the negotiations are in very good hands. I feel excellent progress is being made here today."

It was a lie but I didn't care. I left Anthea to take notes for me.

I don't really know what I was expecting when I got back to the flat, but I wasn't expecting silence. I looked down the hallway to the guest bedroom. Dominic was by the open door, standing still. Eddie was there too but further away. He couldn't be seen from inside the room.

They both glanced up at me as I came in, but didn't say anything and Dominic turned straight back to S.

I was confused and headed towards them.

"I'm worried about the gash on his arm, but he won't let me get near him," D whispered to me when I got close enough.

I looked into the room. S was quiet, he was stood in the corner of the room, behind the armchair, backed as far away from the door as he could get. The bedside lamp had been broken, and it would appear that this was the source of the long cut on his arm. It was bleeding quite severely and clearly needed attention. He was stood still and shivering, but otherwise seemed perfectly normal.

"Sherlock?" He didn't appear to have heard me. I stepped towards him. "Sherlock?"

He looked up then. "No! No! No!" He started shaking quite violently.

"Sherlock? What is it? What's the matter?"

"Stay away! They'll get you too!"

"What will?"

"Them!" He glanced towards the broken lamp on the floor and frowned. "They've gone now. They'll come back though. They're just hiding. They're always there!"

I took another step towards him.

"No! Stay away from me!"

"Sherlock? Do you know who I am?"

"Just stay away from me!"

"OK! OK." I put my hands up. I wasn't sure why. I clearly wasn't armed. "Sherlock, can you tell me what you need?"

He started crying then, and pleading with me to help him. I took another step towards him and he yelled again.

"No! Shit! They're back! Please stay away! Just, help me!"

He looked so panicked and I took another step. He startled and fled. He pushed past me and darted into the hallway. I heard him screaming as Eddie carried him back into the room.

"Put him down right now!" I said and Eddie released him instantly. S looked utterly confused. His face was soaking with tears and snot and spit. I was overcome with the urge to wipe him down but I ignored it. He still wouldn't let me get close.

"Sherlock, it's OK. There's nothing here."

He didn't seem to understand this at all and I was at a loss. His arm clearly needed attention and I couldn't work out how to get close to him without Eddie manhandling him and causing him more yet more stress.

I looked to Dominic to help and once again wondered how he was possibly old enough to be fully qualified. He seemed happy that he had my support though, and he came into the room too.

"Sherlock? I'd like to have a look at your arm. Is it hurting?"

S glanced at his arm. What he saw there confused him for a second, then it seemed to startle him.

"Shit! Shit! Get it off! Get it off me!"

He started scratching and pulling at the cut. It was clear he was going to do himself real harm now, so I ignored the panic and got close to him. He was backing away again, to the other side of the room, and I realised that with me, D and Eddie all there, he probably felt completely surrounded.

I turned and handed my phone to Eddie. "Scroll down to find Doctor Williams' number, and ask him to come here immediately."

Eddie seemed baffled by the iPhone and I snapped at D to help him. I turned back to S.

"OK, Sherlock. I'm not going to hurt you. Let me see your arm. We can help with that."

He cried again. I reached out and took his arm and he screamed and tried to fight me off. I tried to ignore Eddie who seemed torn between his usual job of 'prevent anyone attacking M Holmes' and my previous instruction not to touch S Holmes.

Fortunately, despite Sherlock's usual strength and training, he was as weak as a kitten just then. He was half fighting me off and half using me to hold himself up.

I suddenly found I was stood in the room with my arms around him while he rested his head on me and cried about the spiders in the lamp and how they were crawling all over him and that they'd be under his skin forever.

While I could see this would be unpleasant, it was also clearly untrue. Once again, I found I was in a position that I was completely unfamiliar with. I briefly entertained the idea of patting him on the shoulder and saying 'there, there,' but I wasn't sure what this was supposed to achieve, so I didn't.

"Sherlock? Do you think you want to lie down?" I asked him.

He didn't answer. I managed to walk him slowly towards the bed, but he refused to actually sit. He seemed to have recognised me as an ally, even if he didn't know quite who I was and he was clinging to me now. It was quite uncomfortable. I decided that for want of a better plan, I'd just have to stand there until Doctor Williams arrived.

Eventually S seemed to be calming down, and D asked again if he could check Sherlock's arm. I pulled myself away slightly and held it out for him. S seemed fairly happy to be led at this point, so I pushed him very gently down to sit on the bed and sat beside him.

D very gently pulled S's sleeve up so that he could see the arm clearly.

"I'm going to put a bandage on this, Sherlock," he said gently. "Is that OK?"

S looked at me, bewildered.

"It's the best thing to do, Sherlock," I told him. He seemed to accept this.

I think we were beginning to make some progress when the doorbell rang and startled him again. Eddie went to let Dr W in and D and I started trying to reason with S again. He'd scrambled off the other side of the bed and was squatting by the wall. He was quiet, though clearly frightened, but we were keeping him quite calm until bloody Dr W blustered into the room.

"Now what's this all about then, Stephen?"

Sherlock was thoroughly confused and started screaming. There were no words this time to give us an indication of what he was thinking, just screaming, over and over again.

"Now, now! Let's have less of that, Stephen! Let's see if you can calm down, shall we?"

"It's _Sherlock_!" I hissed.

S suddenly leapt forward and tried to shove Dr W away. He's a big man, so it did little and he just swayed slightly and grabbed at him. S screamed again.

"You there! Help me get him down!" the doctor yelled to D.

D tried again to calmly restrain S, but this wasn't efficient enough for the doctor. "Don't fanny about, man! You! Get him to the bed!"

Eddie glanced at me for approval and I must have nodded or something. Other than that, I was spectacularly useless. Even young Dominic did better, staying near S, trying to explain calmly what was happening as Eddie held him down.

Doctor Williams took a pre-filled syringe out of his bag.

"Sherlock? The doctor is going to give you something to make you feel better. It'll make the spiders go away," D told him calmly.

"Come on now, Sherlock!" Dr W boomed. "People who do silly things have to take their medicine!"

I've never seen someone look as terrified as S did right then. Eddie was holding him down firmly, D had taken one of his hands, and the Doctor was leaning over him with a needle.

He looked at me, clearly desperate for me to intervene. I didn't. Once again, my cowardice loomed in front of me.

"Quick scratch now, Sherlock," D told him quietly as the doctor stabbed him.

S continued staring at me as he started fighting the drugs. It didn't take long for him to close his eyes.

"Are you some kind of nurse, boy?" Dr W asked Dominic.

"Yes. Are you some kind of doctor?"

I was quite surprised by the reply from someone who seemed as timid as D. He looked furious at that moment. Doctor Williams stood up straight and thrust his chest out.

"You can patch up his arm well enough. Do you have bandages here? I would like to leave you with several more doses of Valium. Mister Holmes, are you comfortable with that or would you prefer I came back to administer them myself?"

"I trust Dominic absolutely. You can leave anything with him. Eddie, could you show Doctor Williams to the door please?"

Eddie nodded, looking nervously at me. Dr W handed some syringes over to D, nodded at me and left.

"Can you stay with him for a while?" I asked D. I desperately needed to leave the room.

He nodded and I fled. I went straight to my bedroom and locked myself in again. Yet again it took me quite some time before I was calm enough to type.

I have ordered the start of wars. I have been aware of the use of torture when questioning suspects and chosen not to see it. I have been instrumental in creating laws that curtail the human rights of British subjects. I have one two occasions ordered the executions of people who needed to be killed. Each time I have been able to argue the need for these actions, and I have been able to accept my role in them as necessary.

I realise that these things don't make me a good person, but I've argued that they don't make me a bad person either.

I don't think I've ever done anything that made me so ashamed of myself than standing idly by while my brother was restrained and medicated against his will.


	7. Chapter 7

_Saturday 4__th__ January. 08:11_

I am taking a break, as it was getting to the point where my own exhaustion was threatening to outweigh Sherlock's.

Well, that might be a slight exaggeration.

I have checked the date on my previous entry and find it was three days ago, it seems like years. Clearly some parts of the last few days have escaped my memory, but I will document them as best as I can.

The first thing to note is that D has been an absolute godsend. When he worked past his initial nervousness he has been straightforward to work with, and has been the font of extraordinary knowledge. I am surprised to think of how much I have learned from him. I've made notes to pay off his student loan and the various loans and the re-mortgage his parents took out to pay for his education.

One of the things that I'm completely in awe of is D's ability to be perfectly calm while being tactile with S. S hasn't required much, but all cleaning and dressing has been carried out by D without a moment's pause. There have been times when S has been distressed, and D has sat on the bed with him, sometimes holding a hand, sometimes gently stroking his head until S calms down. Though D appears to be entirely professional, there seems to be closeness between the two of them that simply doesn't exist between S and me.

Between the two of us we worked out the various signals S was giving when he needed something. Both of us have become adept at spotting when he's hallucinating and have been able to talk him through it. We have not resorted to valium again. S has had three periods of proper hallucinations that we know of. More often he becomes confused and disoriented. D has described these times as 'waking dreams', which seems an apt description. S is able to work out that they are not real, and has sometimes been able to banish them on his own.

He still startles easily, so we have all taken to walking around the flat in a very calm and quiet fashion. I find that I enjoy this in general and hope that the staff continue the practise after S has gone again.

D and I have settled into a rough routine where one or the other of us sits with S during the day, usually in three or four hour blocks, and I am able to manage the nights by myself with the happy safety net of having Eddie just downstairs or in the living room. I don't know what's happening with my security during the day, but I'm sure someone's sorted out something.

S has started to accept that night-time is the best time for sleeping so after the first two nights of resting in the armchair in his room, last night, I came back to my own room to sleep. I found I needed to leave both bedroom doors open in order to feel confident with this arrangement, but I did eventually fall asleep.

At around half past two last night, Sherlock screamed and I woke and dashed into his room. He was sat up, panting hard and sweating. He seemed reasonably lucid though.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you," he said.

This is the longest sentence we've had from him in quite some time.

He fell back down on the bed. He was still breathing heavily, and though he looked focussed, he had clearly been alarmed and he covered his face with his hands. I looked at him for a long time.

"Move up," I said to him.

He didn't argue, he just shuffled to one side of the bed so that I could get in the other. I stayed very still, trying not to disturb him through unwanted contact. He continued lying on his side, facing away from me.

I don't know when this distance crept between us. We didn't used to bother about hauling each other up while climbing trees and the like, and I used to lead him by the hand all the time. There were times after he'd been punished when I hugged him until he stopped crying and shaking.

The night of the party, I remember lying in bed very still, staring at the ceiling. I knew I ought to be going to sleep, but I also knew I wouldn't until S was returned and I didn't bother fighting the sleeplessness. It was hours and hours. When the grandfather clock chimed nine-thirty I was convinced that my father must be about to go and get him, but he didn't. I waited until quarter past eleven when I finally heard movement downstairs and my father going out and trudging along the gravel path.

A few minutes later I heard his return journey with the added sound of S following behind again. I would have cried with relief if I'd have been the crying sort.

I heard S come up the stairs and go into his bedroom. He didn't linger there but came straight through the bathroom and into my room. The bed I slept in was a huge, ancient, mahogany thing, built for status and strength and S had to scramble up the side to get in with me. He was freezing. Far colder than he should have been for the temperature of the summer evening. I wrapped him in my duvet and hugged him closely, letting him steal my body-warmth. The shivering took an age to stop that night. I started to wonder whether I should go to find a hot-water bottle, but we'd only be ignored as long as we didn't leave the room, so I didn't. I just held him closer.

Eventually he did calm down. He fidgeted and shuffled for a moment.

"Sorry, I'm getting stones in your bed," he said, brushing the gravel to the floor.

"It doesn't matter. Go to sleep now," I told him, cursing myself for not making sure he'd been wearing his slippers.

The sound of Sherlock's voice brought me back to the present.

"Sometimes I think I'll spend my whole life alone and in the dark."

He said it quietly, I didn't know if he thought I was awake or not.

"Mm," I said, just to acknowledge him. Hours on and I still don't have answer for that.

"Sorry. You should go back to bed." He told me.

"No."

"Why did you bring me here? To your flat?"

I sighed. I wanted to comfort him, but 'to prevent you killing yourself' didn't sound like the most calming thing to say at that moment.

"I like the violin," I told him.

"What?"

"It's been a dream of mine for a while to have someone play the violin to me while I eat my dinner, but you simply can't find the staff these days."

He was quiet for a moment, and then he chuckled and rolled onto his back.

"I still don't know whether I can do this. Even now, I'm thinking it's only a few more weeks and then I can get something again.

"Well, take it one day at a time."

"How many days is it now? I'm losing track."

"Six." I was being generous with the count but I felt he'd earned it.

"Seems like longer. And shorter."

"I should get you a calendar so you can keep track. Or we could make you a chart and you could tick off the days as they pass."

He snorted. "You make it sound like that ridiculous reward chart you made for me when we were little."

"It was not ridiculous! It was strongly recommended by all of the parenting books."

"How did you find out? What possessed you to read…."

It hadn't worked. The reward chart hadn't worked for S. He was thrilled with the sudden approval and the opportunity to stick a star onto his chart, but the thrill of reward was fleeting, much as the reaction to the punishment was fleeting. He'd continue acting on whatever impulse passed through his brain. Whether this might end in being locked in the wine cellar or being given a sparkly gold star was utterly irrelevant to him at the moment of impulse.

"Sherlock, I want you to know that I'm sorry that I didn't do more to stand up for you back then."

He was quiet for a while as he thought about this.

"Mycroft, for one thing you were a child. It wasn't your responsibility to make sure I stayed out of trouble. For another, you tried to even though it wasn't it wasn't your responsibility. And for another, you broke the lock on the cellar door. I noticed and I've always remembered it. I might not have said 'thank you' but I was grateful. I was just an uncommunicative little shit."

"That doesn't seem to be a problem now."

"No. Sorry. I can't sleep." He was silent for a moment. Just a short moment though. "What did he do to you when you broke it? I was convinced he was going to beat you with something. I was terrified for you. Oh, and you'll note that I didn't do anything to protect you from him either."

"He didn't do anything. He didn't even mention it. It made me wish I'd done it years earlier. Do you remember the chocolate cake incident?"

"Vaguely. I remember it was a good chocolate cake."

"Hm. I remember it. I should have broken the lock then. I was probably strong enough but it didn't occur to me to try."

"I could have started trying to behave."

"Part of me thinks you were trying. You were just inept. Anyhow, I was surprised he didn't mention it too. Right up until the day he died I thought that it was bound to come up in conversation and he was going to scold me for it."

"Did you keep seeing him?"

"Yes. I visited both of them monthly until they passed. Mummy asked after you regularly."

"I saw her sometimes but she didn't always remember me. I didn't see Father though. I don't imagine he wanted me to."

"No. I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter. What could he possibly have said? I can't imagine another parent being quite as relieved when they got to send their child to boarding school."

"Mm."

"Mycroft?"

"Mm?"

"Thanks for having me here this week. It is better than an institution. Well, for me anyway."

"For me too. Well, mostly. I think I'd be able to get more sleep if you were elsewhere."

"You're the one who got into my bed."

"True."

We were quiet for a while longer.

"I can't sleep," he told me.

"You can do anything if you put your mind to it, Sherlock."

"Apart from sleep."

"Is my presence making you uncomfortable?"

"No. I just can't sleep. I'm bored. My mind won't stop trying to find something to think about."

"Oh. Well in that case, do you fancy a game of chess?"

"Chess? We haven't played chess since that time I threw the black queen at you so hard it chipped a tooth."

"Oh! That was why we stopped playing. I remember now. Well, the pieces I have now aren't carved from marble, so we'd be relatively safe."

"Are you sure you want to risk it?"

"Maybe not. Oh, I was thinking, would you like to go into business with me? I thought that maybe we could set up a private investigation company. I'd be a silent partner of course."

"I don't think you could ever be a silent partner for anyone, Mycroft, least of all me."

"Well I'd be mostly silent. You'd do all the work! You could be a PI. I've heard that good ones get paid quite well."

"I can't think of a job I'd like to do less than be a PI."

"Well what about coming to work with me in Whitehall then?"

"Oh, there's one."

"What about joining the police?"

"There's another."

"What about medical school? You've always had an odd fascination with internal organs."

"Problem is, in general I prefer people when they're dead more than when they're alive. That might get in the way a bit."

"PI it is then."

"It really isn't."

"Well you have to do something to keep you out of mischief. What about teaching the violin?"

"Me and children, Mycroft? God no."

"Then I'm tapped out of ideas."

"Good. If you came up with any more I'd have to banish you from the room, which seems pretty rude considering it's your flat."

"And you've always been such a stickler for etiquette, Sherlock."

The clock struck three thirty.

He sighed again. "OK, I'm going to start counting backwards from a hundred in Greek. I'm sure I'll drop of at some point. I'm going to need complete silence from you though."

"Fine."

In a low voice he started his count. I don't know if it worked for him, but I was asleep by Ογδόντα.

He was certainly asleep when I woke up an hour ago and I came into the bedroom to bring my journal up to date. I can now hear Marie has arrived and S seems to be making a trip out of his bedroom so I'd better go and ensure he doesn't irritate the staff.

_Saturday __4th January. 19:00_

Sherlock had got out of bed, washed, and joined me in the dining room for breakfast. It really seemed as though he was a different person, and I am generally pleased with the way today has gone.

He didn't eat much, but did nibble at the corners of a slice of dry toast and drank some tea. Marie noticed as soon as she came in.

"Oh, Mister Holmes, you're nauseous. I'll nip out and get you some ginger beer in a moment."

"Thank you," he said.

"I'll do something simple for lunch too, Mister Holmes. I always gave my children chicken and rice when they were ill. How does that sound?"

"That sounds fine," he said, looking embarrassed. "Thank you."

"What will I have?" I asked, liking something to look forward to.

"Chicken and rice, sir. I just said."

"But I don't want chicken and rice! I'm not nauseous!"

"I'm sure that's true sir, but we have been rather too relaxed about your diet of late. Chicken and rice will be good for you."

I was most disappointed but I had to accept it or learn to cook. Marie refreshed the coffee, took the rest of the breakfast things away and S and I adjourned to the living room.

S fell onto the sofa and grabbed the television remote, and I started on the pile of newspapers.

"Put the news on!" I told S.

"Why? What have you done now?"

"Just do it, Sherlock!"

The G-B treaty was announced and described in about ninety seconds before they moved onto their 'top story' which was something about Mercedes Benz.

"Huh, that sounded like the sort of thing you'd be involved with," S said, apparently not noticing me desperately digging through the papers on my desk trying to find a copy of the document. I found it and sat down to read it properly. It was quite clearly a watered down version of anything that might have been useful, then rushed and released so that it could be announced formally before next week's parliament session starts. It was not worth the paper it was written on.

"Bloody hell!" I shouted quite loudly.

Sherlock had been quiet for a while.

"If you want to go to work you can, you know," he said to me. "I'm fine here. I'm sure Dominic will be here soon too."

"No, no. It's fine." I stared out of the window wondering if the situation was in any way salvageable. I feared not.

I became aware that S was watching me and gave him a smile. "It's fine. What do you want to do today?"

"Oh, I thought I'd lay about feeling uncomfortable, probably taking several baths to sooth the aches a bit despite it never having worked before, and then I'll go to bed so I can have some nightmares and fail to sleep after that."

"Well, that does sounds fun, but how about we go for a walk instead? Just to break up the routine."

"Seriously, Mycroft, I feel awful."

"But you look much better!"

"Well I feel like I've got really bad flu."

"Oh that's good!" I told him. He glared at me. "No! It is! After the really bad bit, it feels like flu! That means that the bad bit's over!"

"Well, I can't remember much of what it felt like before, so this is worse." A shadow suddenly passed over his face and I suspected some of what he'd been through in the previous few days hadn't quite been forgotten.

"Well, maybe we can postpone the walk until tomorrow," I told him.

"No, tomorrow I plan to beat you to death with a paperweight for being insufferable. The courts would be on my side."

"Oh dear, Sherlock, if you think any part of that might be true you're clearly still delusional."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

I settled down with a book.

Dominic arrived, slightly late but I was too cheerful to be upset about this. He too was clearly pleased with the change in S. He was able to convince him to take some paracetamol too, after which S fell asleep for a few hours.

I was sad to tell D that it didn't look as though we would need him any more. He looked disappointed too, but stoic about the situation. He informed me he was intending to take a staff job at St Mary's for a year or two to save money, then go back to take the extra year of study he'd need for psychiatric work.

I told him he needn't bother waiting a year, and that I'd pay his fees and living costs so that he could start as soon as he wanted. For a moment I thought he was going to cry. While it wasn't going to make anything worse I told him about his loans and his parent's mortgage too. He needed to sit down for a while so I left him in the dining room.

He stayed long enough to say goodbye to S properly. S was slightly groggy from his nap, so it took a little time for him to understand that he wouldn't be seeing D again. When he did he panicked. D calmly told him that he was going to be fine now, and he didn't need a full time nurse. He just needed to be careful and to take care of himself.

I think we all knew that it would take quite a leap of faith to believe that S would do those things, but I think we all realised that he needs that trust.

He is basically well now. He's lost concentration a couple of times today, but nothing more alarming or sinister than that. I'd like him to see a psychiatrist for a while, but I know that he won't. Physically, he's likely to be able to manage.

I find I'm suddenly heavy-hearted when I think about preparing to return to work myself. Today and last night, I've enjoyed the camaraderie that S and I have shared. Even if he has been annoying, it's been, well, fun.

Non-the-less, I intend to be back at the office on Monday.

Apart from anything else, I really don't know how long it will last before we start wanting to kill each other.


	8. Chapter 8

_26__th__ January.18:00_

Looking back through my diary at the details of the Sherlock situation, I find I ended by posing a question. 'I really don't know how long it will last before we start wanting to kill each other'.

I am now able to answer that question. It was about three hours.

I haven't documented much since then, in part because the world events of the past few weeks have been far more interesting than one man's fight against drug addiction. In addition, each argument we have managed to have has been utterly tedious while it was going on. The idea of relating each one again in print seemed ridiculous.

Initially, I was prepared to treat him leniently. After all, he was still suffering withdrawal symptoms. After another two weeks, I have to admit his behaviour was starting to grate.

I had provided him with various pieces of equipment for some experiments he wanted to carry out, and as this seemed have boredom elimination potential, I offered him the use of the dining room to be a temporary lab. The one rule was to be that there was enough room left for us both to take our meals there.

He spilled something and took a two foot section of varnish off the table top within twelve hours. It cost me £800 of restoration work. He also somehow set fire to the curtains and created something that produced a smell so foul that the room was off limits for everyone for three days.

I'm fairly sure he did all of this deliberately. He is simply not that clumsy.

Whether it was deliberate or not, he refused to apologise, instead choosing to deflect the argument to my weight. He threatened to tell Marie that I'd been supplementing the food she provides with cream cakes that I buy from the bakery on Victoria Street.

He can be very mean at times.

There were several occasions when I retreated to my room just to end whatever argument we were having. After a while, this seemed unsatisfactory, gave him a sense that he'd won somehow, so I started ordering him to his room instead.

He did not like this.

About ten days ago I came home to find him working away on the laptop I'd given him. He looked very pleased with himself when I came in.

"Here, look at this!" He spun the computer around so that I could see.

I prepared myself to see whatever was there. It was in fact a dull looking little website. I sat down next to him to give it closer attention.

"'The Science of Deduction', well that's nice. Oh, you made this! Well done, Sherlock!"

"Yes. It's my new website for my new job."

"New job?" I looked again. "Wait a minute, you said you didn't want to be a Private Investigator."

"I'm not a Private Investigator. I'm a Consulting Detective. It's different."

"Oh. What does a Consulting Detective do then?"

"Well, when people think there's a crime, or some other mysterious event has happened, they consult with me and I explain what must have happened."

"How exactly does that differ from being a PI? Just out of interest?"

"It's clearly different!" He took the computer back from me.

"OK. Well, what will my job be?"

"What do you mean?"

"Aren't we going into business together?"

"God no! I can think of nothing worse. Besides which, you have a job."

"But it was my idea!"

"No it wasn't!"

"Yes it was! I said, 'why don't you become a PI?' or words to that effect. I offered my support! I extended the hand of friendship!"

"One, I'm not a PI, I'm a Consulting Detective. There's a difference. Two, I don't want or need your support. Three, neither one of your hands is the hand of friendship!"

"I _am_ your friend!"

"No you're not."

"Well I'm your brother, but I'm your friend too!"

"No you're not!"

"But Sherlock…"

"What?"

"After all I've done…"

"All of what? Oh, I see. You think that you've done something here. You think that everything I've been through has only been possible because of you, don't you? Nothing to do with the fact that _I_ chose to give up the bloody drugs, and _I_ was the one who went through all the withdrawal, and _I_ will be the one who continues to not take the bloody drugs day after day after day. All you did was trap me here and sod off to work every day!"

I was genuinely hurt. Either he didn't notice or he decided to keep going regardless.

"I'm not your pet, your project or your child, Mycroft. I did this, _me!_ And I don't need your help now!"

He stormed out of the room and slammed his bedroom door.

I decided if he didn't want my help I wouldn't advise him to add a little colour into his website to make it more appealing to the eye.

Relations between us have been somewhat chilly since then.

A few days ago he did start speaking to me again, to ask my permission to leave the flat.

"Of course not! We agreed thirty days!"

"No. You said, thirty days, and you said it was without taking drugs. You never said I couldn't leave the flat."

"It was clearly implied!"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Mycroft, do you honestly think that as soon as I leave I'm going to shoot up?"

I hesitated. "No, of course not."

"Oh, damn you, Mycroft! I need to go out for my work, for the job you wanted me to get! I _need_ to."

"How about if Eddie accompanies you?"

"No! That great oaf will just slow me down!"

"Sherlock…"

"OK, fine. How about I go out, I do my job, and you can test me for drugs afterwards!"

I hesitated again. He did seem so eager. "Fine, go out then. But be back by nine."

"I'm not your child, Mycroft!"

"You're wasting time arguing with me."

He looked like he was going to retaliate, but instead he just snarled and darted out.

He walked in again at nine on the dot, looking triumphant. He was about march past to his bedroom when I stopped him and provided him with the small sample pot from the drug testing kit Anthea had bought for me.

"You're kidding!"

"No, this is what we agreed, isn't it?"

"You don't trust me?"

"It's not about whether I trust you or not, Sherlock!"

"Of course it is!" He was about to march away again but I called after him.

"Come on, Sherlock. I really don't want to have to start the thirty days all over again. Do you?"

He stopped, then turned around and came back to snatch the pot from me. He marched into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. When he'd finished he marched back to his room.

It's a deeply unpleasant business, testing someone's urine for drugs. I briefly wondered if I could ask Marie or Eddie to do the deed, but I swallowed my nausea, put on the medical gloves supplied, and ran the test.

I knocked on Sherlock's door, and opened it to find him sat on the bed, working on his laptop.

"It was clean," I told him.

"I _know,_" he replied.

For a moment I wondered if I should apologise, but he'd already turned back to his computer, so I left him alone.

He hasn't spoken to me since. He leaves tomorrow. I remember that when he was first here I entertained the idea that he might want to stay. Or that he might at least want to communicate with me in some way if he lived elsewhere. That seems quite unlikely now. While this saddens me, I'm not completely sure that I want to communicate much with him either.

Having him here has been stressful and I'm longing for the calm of the life I had before Christmas.

A similar thing happened the summer of that fateful party.

The following day he'd leapt out of bed and seemed completely unscathed from everything that had gone on the day before. He had started chattering about ant-hills or some such thing, and after his breakfast he disappeared out into the woods again. I followed, fearing that he'd get himself into some mischief or another. Sure enough, he was in a tree, crawling out on a branch over the small stream that ran through the woods there. The branch was slowly bending towards the water.

He wasn't in immediate danger, but I sensed if he returned to the house in filthy clothes for a third time in twenty-four hours, things might go quite badly for him. I encouraged him back down to the ground, and we found a safer way to cross to the giant ant-hill on the other side.

I remember when September came, I was looking forward to school as if it promised to be a delightful rest.

It is not a dissimilar feeling that I have now.

He's eager to leave too. He's packed all the clothes that I bought him in a small suitcase that used to be a part of my luggage set, but I assume it's his now. I can't help but notice that a number of my boring books have mysteriously gone missing. I wonder if I should employ a consulting detective to find out what has happened to them.

I'm not sure where he's going. I don't know whether he'll return to the house he was squatting in or whether he has any possessions there that he might want to keep, assuming they haven't been stolen and sold. I'd like to ask him, but I'm really not sure how.

_26__th__ January 23:24_

As a small addendum to my previous entry, I want to note the following event.

I went into the dining room this evening, which was laid for one person. This isn't unusual. Sherlock has declined to take his meals with me and I'd reverted to eating alone. I assume that Sherlock has been getting sustenance from somewhere. He was certainly putting on weight. Not as much as I seem to be, but he is looking better. He is still refusing to get his hair cut claiming that he'll keep it long because it irritates me, but I've seen him admiring himself in the mirror. It's nice to see some of his old vanity returning.

I digress.

I went in to start my meal (oh, delightful Marie. What would I do without her?). As I ate, I suddenly noticed the soft, low tones of a violin being played. After a while it became louder and I could identify themes from Vivaldi being entwined into the music. It was absolutely beautiful.

He continued playing for the entire time I was eating my meal. He didn't leave his room, but his bedroom door had been left open so the music flowed freely through to me. I was sorely tempted to run into the room and simply beg him to stay. It was better than I could possibly have imagined. For the first time ever, there was something I was enjoying more than the food during a meal time.

When I had finished and left the room, he came to a close and stopped playing. I knocked on the door of his room and went in. He was carefully putting his violin back in its box.

"Thank you, Sherlock," I said to him. He just shrugged at me, but didn't shout or ask me to leave. "Do you know where you'll be living yet?"

"No. I've booked a hotel room for tomorrow night while I find somewhere."

"You know you're welcome to stay here until you're settled."

"Thank you, but no."

"I can help you find a flat."

"No, I'll be fine."

"Why must you continue to fight me?"

He looked up and smiled at me. "Because you're my enemy, Mycroft. I think that's your function in my life."

"Oh."

"It's OK. As enemies go, you're a fairly good one."

"Thank you."

"You might even be my arch-enemy."

"Oh. Well that's good."

"Yes, I think so."

I nodded and bid him goodnight.

There's something quite comforting about being Sherlock's arch-enemy. I'm glad that there isn't anyone out there who wishes him more harm than I do.

_30__th__ January 23:10 _

I feel some epilogue is needed to the saga of my brother. Not that he ceases to be, of course, just that I feel the part of his story where I feature has come to an end. Well, for him, anyhow. I will have him under continual surveillance. This is probably unnecessary, but I know he will find it annoying, knowing that I know what he's doing all the time.

Anyhow, it came to my attention that he is seeking, and has found, a flatmate. A Doctor John Watson. He's ex-military, recently home from Afghanistan where he was unfortunately shot. What's more unfortunate, on reading his files, is that he appears to be psychologically damaged too. I'm not sure I want another such individual in the same vicinity as my brother so I arranged to meet him.

I wasn't entirely sure how this meeting would go, so I arranged it as discretely as possible. I didn't call him on his own phone, nor did I meet him anywhere where my dearest Brother might spot us. It took a couple of public phones to get the point across, but he did eventually catch on.

Anthea picked him up. She tells me he spent much of the journey trying to 'chat her up'. I note from her phone records that she spent much of the journey texting Eddie, so he had absolutely no hope. Ah well, it's probably best that she doesn't distract him from Sherlock.

The man himself was odd. He appeared to be perfectly ordinary, if you discounted that ridiculous cane for the psychosomatic limp. When face to face, however, he failed to behave in an ordinary way at all.

He was incredibly proud, and quite defensive from the outset. Of course, thinking now, it might have been that he found the location I'd chosen mildly intimidating. It can't be helped of course, and I explained to him that we needed to avoid Sherlock's prying eyes, but I'm not entirely sure he got the point. Besides which, I provided a chair to make him comfortable. Again, I fear I may have overshot 'comfortable' and hit 'intimidating'. It did look suspiciously wipe-clean now I come to think of it.

He took pains to inform me that he wasn't afraid of me, and suggested that I was overly dramatic. This annoyed, I have to admit, but I attempted to praise his courage to get him on side a little. Again, this didn't quite seem to hit the mark. Perhaps the word 'stupidity' wasn't quite what I intended.

Or maybe it was. This is a man who clearly has courage in spades, where I have none. Over recent weeks, it's come to me that perhaps I have intelligence to make up for my cowardice. A complicated notion, and perhaps one that best not aired at that particular meeting.

I offered him a meaningful incentive to keep an eye on S and to report back to me on any activities. He was swift to refuse. While the information would have been useful, I am quite pleased to know that there is someone close by to S who appears to be extremely loyal to him. I hinted that a relationship might be pleasant for all, but again, this seemed to slightly miss the target.

In fact, there was one brief moment when it looked as though he was going to walk away from the pair of us and I was briefly worried. Fortunately, I hit upon the happy suggestion that perhaps he might like to consider London his new battlefield, and therefore accept Sherlock as his new comrade.

He asked Anthea to take him to Baker Street and I knew then that all was well. Well, until my little brother messes things up for himself. But even then, I wonder if the sort of courage that Doctor John Watson has might be just what young Sherlock needs.

I hope so anyway.

I contemplated texting the details of the cabbie over to S just to hurry him along. Not least because his relationship with Lestrade of Scotland Yard still seems to be quite tense and a 'win' in this case might help to mend that slightly. In the end I decided against.

He seems to be having so much fun working it out on his own.

I shall be watching the career of the world's first Consulting Detective with more than a little interest.


End file.
